The Ava Watson Verse 3: Rocks of Salvation
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: Moriarty's games and Sherlock's own arrogance have cost him the battle, but the war for Sherlock's soul plays on. Who would have thought that the shattered army doctor and the tiny girl could put up such a fight? Spoilers for 2x03 Slash
1. Prologue: In the Spider's Web

The Ava Watson Verse

3:

Rocks of Salvation

Summary:

Moriarty's games and Sherlock's own arrogance have cost him the battle, but the war for Sherlock's soul plays on. Who would have thought that the shattered army doctor and the tiny girl could put up such a fight?

* * *

><p>Spoilers for the whole of series 2<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue: In the spider's web<strong>

As always it was the ex-army doctor that caused him problems as he sat hammering out the details in the lab where it had all begun.

John Watson was (and Sherlock was starting to think always would be) an anomaly. The layers to the man were truly fascinating; just as he thought he had worked it all out, another facet would appear and beg to be peeled away, studied and tested but never discarded.

Never discarded.

It had been a hope of his that this...this siren's call would stop without proximity. That the need to delve into John Watson's mind and uncover all the depths and heights would vanish when the temptation was no longer in the room upstairs. That the memory of extraordinary moments of dizzying fun would fade and die away. That the sniping and nagging would cease to be a source of endless amusement and one-upmanship when he could no longer go through the motions.

And above all there had been the desperate, vain desire to rid himself of the sudden thudding heart, damp brow and momentary numbness that crippled him every time someone held John's life in their hands.

It had seemed logical. Remove the problem and it would cease to exist, be eventually deleted with the rest and become only a vague, fond tugging on his unconscious mind.

But he of all people should have known it was never that simple. Even then, when that plan started to take shape he should have known. But he'd been so desperate, scared even.

The mind numbing terror that he was losing; that there was no way out and his own sentiment was to blame.

Idiot.

* * *

><p>There had been need of course.<p>

Moriaty's game had worked so beautifully. Perfect in its detail and execution; excruciatingly perfect. Even If he'd had weeks to work it out he doubted he would have seen it. Only as the spider web started to bend and unravel had he caught a glimpse of the network; the silken weave, the threaded poisonous intent and whispered venom.

Moriarty had pulled him up and then thrown him down. Down to such horrifying depths that Sherlock had almost drowned as he'd sat on the floor at Bart's, waiting for Molly and desperate for John.

And then there had been that moment on the roof. The fear of loss, the glow of triumph and the joy of winning. Every emotion they had mirrored in each other until the very end when Moriarty pulled the trigger.

It hadn't killed him. The angle had been wrong, the gun had never fired. A backup plan then, to have another assassin, one with a marksmanship to rival John's, shoot just perfectly. He'd been in control enough to notice that. His own contingency plan keeping him calm enough to not be stunned by the theatrics.

But Moriarty was alive, but unconscious and unresponsive to any attempt at getting that damned code off of him. The odds of stopping the assassins were so slim as to be negligible. He'd never make it down from the roof that he'd chosen, the roof that allowed the assassins to see so clearly.

His own arrogance had stunted him again.

Moriarty thought he'd won, was so sure of it. He could never be down there, at the pavement, to see what happened. To see how Sherlock pulled it off.

So, only one logical solution. Only one way out.

Just not with one guaranteed result.

And so Sherlock had stood on the edge and phoned.

He didn't doubt there was a recorder, somewhere on Jim Moriarty. Even if there wasn't, it was hardly a great trial to hack into the phone records and the last call made. It burned that the thing lying, bleeding on the roof behind him might hear the last words he said to John; the lie that spewed past his lips in the hope that John would turn and walk away from it all without a backward glance or a moment of sorrow.

On the off chance that it didn't work?

Because there had been a margin for error. A small chance that it wouldn't work and that this jump would be his last.

A leap of faith.

Not something that one would tend to associate with Sherlock Holmes.

Yet it was something that John continued to have. Faith. Loyalty. Sheer bloody minded stubbornness that made Sherlock waver and search for something, anything, that would give John a hint or a clue.

But there was nothing that the damned recorder wouldn't reveal to Moriarty when he woke.

And how cruel it would be, if this failed, to leave John with such endless hope.

Despite it all he could never be intentionally cruel, not to the one person that still refused to give up on him.

"Don't take your eyes off me."

It had been all that he could give back.

* * *

><p>Stunted by his own arrogance and his own heart, he'd stood in the graveyard, opposite the stone that bore his name, and watched the soldier cry.<p>

Cry.

It could have been his chance. John had given him the perfect opening, had faith even beyond what he'd been told.

Even his dastardly brother couldn't be sure of what Sherlock had done. Molly would never tell; he doubted she'd even understood the how or the what or the why. There was no doubt that Mycroft would piece it together after a few months if he really chose to. He'd obviously tapped the phone. Sherlock's plea for privacy had been ignored.

Again.

But he'd watched John walk away, unwilling to believe in anything but Sherlock, and Sherlock had found himself unable to move. Unable to take that perfect opening.

"Don't be dead."

Moriarty was alive. Moriarty thought he'd won. Moriarty had dared to hold a trigger to the few people that Sherlock gave a damn about in this cold, grey, dull world.

But still John had faith.

John would never choose to walk away. And Sherlock would never manage to get to Moriarty when all the man had to do was put a tiny red dot on the brave man that walked through the graves.

The second he stepped out to John he would make him a hostage.

Unacceptable.

The benefits of being dead were unrivalled, but it had meant that he had to leave everything behind. The violin, the experiments, the kindly aunt-like woman who could scold, the inspector whose eye-roll was as revealing as a dramatic monologue.

Him.

But it was back to anonymity. He'd forgotten what a blessing it could be, how freeing.

Nobody looks as the dead.

Least of all Moriarty; he was far too focused on destroying the living.

The tendrils of the webs had been easy to find when he hunted for them, rather than playing house and pet detective to the newspapers. Finally he was the aggressor, the one waging the unknown war.

This time Moriarty would have to catch up.

Sherlock managed to catch a glimpse of him from time to time. Sometimes it would take a second look because the man flickered between disguises the way Sherlock could mimic a world of expressions. There were scars from the bullet and the resulting surgery. He'd played the victim wonderfully well when the concerned officers had found him on the roof, even confirming what Sherlock had confessed to John in those last moments on the phone.

John had refused to believe it still. Mycroft had retaliated in a rather uncharacteristically excessive manner. Though it had been amusing to watch Moriarty's own fondness for bombs turn against him for a moment.

Moriarty had been hurt, there was no mistaking that. Hurt and wounded enough that he had staggered off to mainland Europe to lick his wounds and sharpen his claws. But still physically fragile enough that he no longer seemed to be the furious presence that he once had been.

For a time at least. And, in that time, Sherlock found a way in to the Lion's den. Worked his way up and up and up.

And then, years into it, Mycroft had sent a text. One single text on a number he should never have found.

_He's in trouble_.

Sherlock ignored it with a sneer. Did Mycroft really think it was that easy? One text to snap him back to London, to give up when was so close he could practically taste the genuine shock on Moriarty's face.

It was intoxicating. Consuming. The need burned in him sharper, fiercer, brighter than anything else he'd ever felt before. Everything faded, as predicted. John, dependable, reliable John was probably married by now, Sherlock Holmes a momentary digression in the otherwise predictable life of the wounded soldier. Mrs Hudson probably scolded and mothered the new tenants. Lestrade was likely still dealing with the idiots he surrounded himself with and coping with the patience of a saint.

Their lives had moved on and so had his. On his best days he could tell himself that he wouldn't care now if Moriarty hung the same threat over his head. That he wouldn't be distracted from their game by petty lives. That he enjoyed it.

Gone were the days of mind numbing nothingness. Every moment was a war, every action calculated for effect and consequence. It was better than any substance on earth and so much more useful.

He could have screamed the word to the sky in triumph.

Only a week after that he could have screamed at himself.

Clever, brilliant, extraordinary.

Just not quite enough.

Always following.

And, these days, lying. But now there was only one person he could lie to that was around to listen.

It was only when he stood side by side with a scarred Moriarty, watching from afar as a building exploded while a woman screams echoed in his ear, that he realised Moriarty could play him far, far better than Mycroft could.

And, a week later, he learnt that Mycroft had never intended to play him at all.


	2. Part 1: Chapter One

The hotel that he'd retreated to in Vienna was basic, as boring as he could manage to find. Even walking down the corridor threatened to send him into a spiralling depression in the way that losing once again hadn't.

In comparison to that first time, on the roof top all those years ago, it had barely bruised him. Dented his ego perhaps, but there had been some satisfaction in knowing that Moriarty hadn't seen it coming until the end. The past month to be specific. Something had happened, something had been seen, had been discovered.

Molly? No, she hadn't known quite enough to be of any use and, though she might be the weak link in his most hastily created and perhaps most brilliant plan, Mycroft would have covered it. The moment that Mycroft had suspected (which if Sherlock were honest was probably about two minutes after he texted Moriarty to meet him on the roof) Mycroft would have plugged the gaps.

Just in case.

Mycroft then? But Mycroft was unlikely to make the same mistake twice; it would have dented his professional pride to have been made a fool of in the same way.

And Mycroft valued professional pride above everything.

John?

Sherlock paused.

How was it that after all this time, after a longer period apart than the entirety of their relationship, the name still made him hesitate. Still conjured up images of laughter, annoyance, tea and tears.

Sherlock pushed whatever the emotion was away and refocused without the distraction. John had no idea. Everything had hinged upon his reaction because if the sniper had John in his scope it meant he had every reaction, every expression recorded for every exacting detail.

And John's reaction had been the pivotal feature of his deception.

Which left him circling again. Tracking down the favours he'd called in would require intense legwork, something that bored Moriarty witless. And Moriarty may have glanced at the circumstances, may have even pinned them up on a wall somewhere to gloat as he recuperated, but the joy of the deception was that people would see exactly what they expected to see.

And John's reaction was the thing, the pivotal thing, which prevented most from looking any further. Moriarty had boasted with relish more than once about how he broke Sherlock's pet. Scotland Yard had looked the other way, uncomfortable and shaken in their belief of Sherlock's lie. The press had used the gossip angle, scraping Sherlock and John's relationship to pieces as they speculated in whatever way suited their readers.

John's reaction was Sherlock's protection, his escape, in the same way that Sherlock was now John's.

He was doing it again. Allowing the all-consuming sentiment get in the way of the deduction.

It wasn't John.

It wasn't Molly.

Mycroft.

All roads led back to Mycroft.

Because Mycroft was the only one who could piece bits of it together and approach the right answer. The only one that suspected with no tangible proof but with the resources to glimpse Sherlock's shadow.

Reaction. It was all about reaction. Mycroft was the only one who would suspect, and so the only one who might react in a way that would make Moriarty suspicious enough to look. To actually look.

What had Mycroft reacted to? He was hardly the most sentimental person in the world. Hardly out in the public view enough to cause a stir.

So the reaction had to be a distant one. Something he had ordered. Sherlock would have known if it had involved him, known if Mycroft had got that close to him.

The past five years living on the edge every second of the day had only sharpened him.

Not him then.

The text.

Sherlock had destroyed the SIM-card but it was hardly difficult to remember.

_He's in trouble._

He twisted the phone in his hand, weighing up the options. His fingers moving almost as fast as his mind worked, grey eyes fixed upon the curtains.

For the first time in five years, he texted back.

_?_

* * *

><p><em>Moran was in London. Dr. Watson got caught up in a tussle with one of his minions. MH<em>

Really? Was it so hard to ask Mycroft to be just a little bit more specific?

_Will you never learn to stop pointing the CCTV at him?_ would be a childish retort. After all it was clear from the ordering of priorities in the text that Moran had been the one that was under heavy surveillance, not John.

Wouldn't that vicious sniper be thrilled that he warranted such attention.

_Is he hurt? _would be asking for trouble.

_So? _would get him nothing. Mycroft would have no compunction about withholding information just to get Sherlock to ask nicely.

_Did he suspect a link with Moriarty? _Would be useless as Sherlock already knew the exact answer and had no doubt that Mycroft would be deliberately pedantic.

But it had been eight minutes since the text came through, which didn't look good.

It irked him that he still reacted this way, after all this time. Five years was a farcically long time to still be...curious about a former associate. Even one who had shot at an impossible distance to save his life, or hadn't so much as flinched when Sherlock had threatened to kill them all one night in a swimming pool.

Or one who giggled in delight at a stolen ashtray and just rolled his eyes at bullets in the wall. Whose only lasting gripe about being strapped to Semtex for hours was that Sherlock had scratched his head with a loaded gun as he paced back and forth.

Sherlock suddenly sat.

Five years was also an awfully long time for John to still be getting caught up in all of this. Of all the people in London, why was it that John was involved in a...how had Mycroft phrased it...a tussle?

Because Moriarty had wished it so or because John had never been able to resist the call of reckless danger?

* * *

><p><em>Caught up or aimed for? SH<em>

_Indeed. MH _

* * *

><p>Sherlock hadn't set foot in London since the day he'd left after watching John walk through the graveyard. It was surprising how much he had ached for it, for the familiar streets and sounds. The smells that meant he could map London with his eyes shut. And the snark.<p>

God how he had missed the snark.

The one thing about Mycroft's gentlemen's club was that the staff there always remembered a face. Which was probably the only reason Sherlock managed to get through the door. The gawking butler's grip went slack with shock and he stepped back from the door as if Sherlock was about to fly through him.

"Do sit down," Sherlock said as he barged through the door with such force that the sound rang throughout the entrance. "Don't mind me,"

The butler seemed to be hyperventilating as Sherlock continued on through the silent room. A few peeped over their newspapers, but there was barely any other reaction. Sherlock continued on through the rooms, knowing the way even if he'd only been in the building three or four times under extreme duress.

The next butler he met almost dropped the tray in shock. Sherlock manoeuvred out of the way without breaking his stride and flung Mycroft's office door open.

His brother looked up from his desk and dropped his pen.

It was the closest he'd ever come to shocking Mycroft.

"What the_" One of the butlers started.

Sherlock slammed the door closed behind him without a backward glance.

Mycroft stood, hands braced flat on the antique desk, his eyes scanning Sherlock rapidly as if trying to read five years in five seconds.

"What did you do?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft blinked and his fingers curled on the desk, fractionally.

"Do?" he asked, sounding a little distant.

"Yes, do." Sherlock glared. "I was close, so close and then something happened. You're the only possible suspect."

"Suspect?" Mycroft parroted.

Any other day he would have crowed with joy that Mycroft was so far behind. Now it was just irritating.

"Moriarty. Five years of work, gone, because you messed up. Again."

"I messed up?" Mycroft breathed with disbelief. "I? I was not the one that took this ridiculous charade beyond the point of sanity. I was not the one who put the people around him through hell_"

"For a reason Mycroft," Sherlock sneered. "I was hardly gallivanting around Europe for the sheer joy of it."

"To what? Destroy Moriarty? To prove you're better?" Mycroft's voice actually started to raise. "Because you're a spoiled child who needs to know he's the King of the playground?"

"Because he would never have left me alone." Sherlock snapped. "Had he known I was alive, he would never have let us go."

Mycroft stared at him as if he'd never seen him before. The hand on the desk trembled with some emotion but it was impossible to tell which.

"He knows now," Mycroft said eventually. "The moment you stormed in here_"

"He knew before that. Just over three weeks ago something happened. It went wrong," Sherlock couldn't bear the raw frustration that echoed from his voice. "You were the only one that suspected."

Suspected, but hadn't known for sure, he realised. Hadn't been completely sure that it wasn't a game that Moriarty was playing, or his own wishful thinking.

A sadistic part of Sherlock wished he could have seen Mycroft's face when he replied yesterday.

Then something in Mycroft's eye flickered and his back straightened.

Back to business and back to normality then, Sherlock noted with some relief. Back to the puzzles and intricacies that they both could deal with far easier than the dangerous and threatening emotions that swirled around them.

"Three weeks ago?" Mycroft asked, standing utterly tall now, the unruffled façade dropping back down as if it had never been lifted.

"I estimate that there was a change in his patterns three days before your first text."

"Ah," Mycroft's face dulled with disinterest. "That,"

"Yes, that." Sherlock took a step forward, starting their dance. "What is "that" this time, hmm? Been swapping holiday photos to prevent national security threats again?"

Mycroft didn't flinch. "If you had a problem with it, you should have told me then instead of leaving it five years to make a protest."

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled in warning.

"I was attempting to get you to come back." Mycroft said, sitting down with a heavy sigh as if it was terribly taxing to explain it all, "You were ignoring every effort I made and chasing after you is...more trouble than it's worth quite frankly."

Sherlock took three careful steps to the desk.

_Attempting to make you come back._  
><em>Ignoring every effort.<em>  
><em>He's in trouble.<em>

"You had to make it real," Sherlock said as he stood close enough to the desk that Mycroft was within arm's reach.

Mycroft smirked. "I hardly had to do anything Sherlock. Merely stand back."

Sherlock winced with twisted amusement. "John's protection. You pulled it."

Mycroft nodded, "You never came back. Ironically, what convinced me you were gone seemed to convince James Moriarty that you were alive." Mycroft raised

his eyes to Sherlock. "I overestimated you it seems."

Sherlock let out a long breath.

"I thought you would have wanted to keep watch from afar. That the second you saw what was happening and that he was vulnerable, you would fly back."

There was a flicker of triumph in Mycroft's voice, "But you couldn't trust yourself not to come running back the moment you sniffed trouble for the good doctor. So much so that you cut yourself off from_"

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded, wanting to brush past the accusations and the sinking feeling that perhaps Mycroft hadn't been the only one to make a mistake.

Then his words sunk in.

"You thought I was dead?" he asked stunned, "What changed your mind?"

"I went back." Mycroft smiled bitterly. "The day we saw an associate of Moran's attack John Watson. It took us less than three hours to see what had been happening."

Sherlock closed his eyes in fury. When he opened them again, it was to see Mycroft pushing a grainy paper to face Sherlock.

Even blurred and distorted, Sherlock recognised John. Older, thinner. The defeated set of his shoulders and bowed head.

Moriarty's glee sung from the screen cap.

_October 1st._

Sherlock felt every muscle inside him tense, as if his body wanted to resist the implications of that for as long as possible.

John had seen Moriarty.

"First meeting?" he asked, forcing himself to pick it up as if Mycroft had thrown down a gauntlet.

"I don't know." Mycroft replied. "Certainly close to it."

"And the others?" Sherlock asked, tossing the picture back at the desk after it offered up no further clues. He despised screen-caps. They never picked up the right details.

Mycroft tossed another at him. This time John was rigid as if he'd had time to acclimatise his reactions to the madman.

The next showed a blurred image of John running after someone. There was just a slice of his face, focused on the man ahead and utterly determined.

Whole.

_October 25th._  
><em>1.12am<em>

Five days ago.

Sherlock's traitorous hand lingered on that one a little too long and his chest eased fractionally.

Until he noticed another screen-cap in Mycroft's hands. His brother seemed almost hesitant.

Nothing was said as Sherlock held his hand out for the final image. Determined not to look as if he were steeling himself against the image, he held it instantly to the light.

John, walking through the streets of London with dark marks all over him.

Blood.

"A tussle?" he heard himself say.

"He didn't seek medical treatment." Mycroft replied.

"He's an army doctor, he never seeks medical treatment. Dishes it out with the slightest provocation though," Sherlock let out an angry breath. "The name?"

"The attacker is in custody." Mycroft leaned back in his chair.

That was irritating.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze upon the desk that held papers countries would beg to see.

"What do you intend to do?" Mycroft asked into the lengthy silence that stretched between them. "Moriarty is now an acknowledged terrorist. There was a retraction in the papers...not that you've bothered with them clearly. Your name was cleared, the flat is still empty, the unsolved cases at Scotland Yard piling up."

"He will come," Sherlock said without a single doubt in his mind, eyes somehow still drawn to the screen-caps.

"He already has." Mycroft's eyes softened with something that looked frankly wrong on his brother's face.

* * *

><p>Standing at the door to 221b again was like being kicked. For a moment, his throat tightened and his heart thudded just a little quicker.<p>

And then the door opened to the only woman he had ever allowed to occasionally scold him.

Mrs Hudson just cried.

* * *

><p>"He moved out about a month after...after..." Mrs Hudson swept past the unpleasant business of his supposed suicide. "I saw him sometimes, just around. He'd pop in to have a cup of tea with me sometimes. He'd never go upstairs, mind. I had to fetch the violin when he mentioned that he'd like it. The poor man went sheet white every time he passed the stairs."<p>

Sherlock shifted as Mrs Hudson poured the tea, the lack of John eerily reminding him of the only polite conversation he and Moriarty had ever had.

Then Mrs Hudson bounced into John's chair and the feeling shattered.

"And of course there was that nasty business with his sister almost two years ago." Mrs Hudson shook her head, "I think that must have been the last time I saw him, just after she was sent down."

Sherlock perched on the edge of the chair, suddenly interested.

"Sent down?" he enquired, sipping the tea.

"Ooh, yes." Mrs Hudson wrapped her hand around the cup with a sweet and sad smile. "Poor thing. John, I mean, not the sister. I never warmed to her."

"You've met her then?" Sherlock shifted; as far as he'd been aware John and Harry had been at odds since just before Moriarty's trial. He'd been distracted at the time, but not distracted enough to not notice the signs that Harry Watson had been in a relationship that John disapproved of. The ex-wife had been muddled in there somewhere too, if he cared to search for that almost deleted memory.

It had been so typically mundane that for once, he'd decided to keep quiet because John would only pull the face that meant he was trying not to scream at yet another person. And then things had spiralled...

Mrs Hudson nodded, her mouth and nose wrinkling. "He lived with her. Took care of her as well as Ava. With all he had going on_" she broke herself off to sip her tea.

Ava.

Wife? No. That didn't sound right from the way that Mrs Hudson had said it.

"_she was carrying on with a married woman. The husband found them in bed together. Attacked the pair of them. The wife's paralysed for life."

"Harry killed him," Sherlock considered that for a moment. "I assume the plea was self-defence."

Mrs Hudson shook her head, "Manslaughter. Though how the jury came to that decision I'll never know. John even took pictures of her injuries when she woke him up in the middle of the night drenched in blood. It's a wonder she didn't scare the child for life."

Child.

Ava.

Interesting.

"Then she went and hung..." Mrs Hudson paused and looked at him over her tea, then sighed, "...hanged herself."

Sherlock paused in bringing the cup to his lips.

_Jury._  
><em>Suicide.<em>  
><em>Three year anniversary.<em>

"In June?" Sherlock asked before he took the sip.

"You did hear about it then?" Mrs Hudson sighed, "I wish he'd kept coming round. Did me good to see him and to give him a break for an hour."

"Yes," Sherlock said, mind elsewhere.

* * *

><p>The flat looked empty without experiments crowding the counter and John's medical books in the corner. The skull was gone, in storage, according to Mrs Hudson, and most of Sherlock's things were apparently scattered around the charity shops of London.<p>

It didn't feel like the flat. And, as saccharine as it was, it didn't feel like he'd come home yet.

"Hardly recognisable now," Mycroft commented, stepping through the following morning.

"Have you successfully resurrected me yet?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the table, vaguely surprised to note how light the wood was when properly taken care of.

Mycroft ignored him, sitting in John's chair with a careless air that had Sherlock gritting his teeth. He waited with his back to his brother as the man arranged himself until comfortable.

"Have you found him?"

"He was found seven minutes after you stormed out of my office." Mycroft retorted. "If you wanted the information that badly you knew where to go."

Sherlock whirled and held out an expectant hand for the address.

Mycroft studied his palm and then his face, "I have my own questions for the doctor."

Dropping his hand Sherlock allowed himself to make an irritated noise and simply reached for his coat.

It was probably the most pathetic acting he'd ever attempted in his life, and Mycroft likely saw through it instantly, but he needed something standing with him when he faced John again.

If only to use as a human shield against the rage that was about to be aimed his way.

* * *

><p>The neighbourhood was wrong for John. Just wrong. Especially if what Mrs Hudson had insinuated was correct and John did indeed have a child.<p>

"I assume you will handle this meeting with the doctor with greater tact than you did ours." Mycroft drawled as they approached the door.

Sherlock just ignored him and rapped on the door, refusing to feel cowed.

The little girl that swung it open to the width the chain would allow looked to be about four or five. Curling blond hair in clumsy pigtails framed a heart shaped face and curious blue eyes.

The shape of the jaw was John's, as were the eyes and the colouring...the nose, however, was Harry Watson's all over.

Not John's. Too old. John would have had to have conceived the child before Sherlock's "death" and Sherlock doubted that would have been something John could have successfully hidden from him or ignored.

But the resemblance had to mean that the girl was a Watson. One way or the other.

"What do you want?" she asked, with a tilt and flash of her eyes, showing utterly no shame in demanding an answer.

From the smell of it, they had interrupted her dinner. Children were notoriously annoying when they weren't fed.

"AVA! Manners"

John.

John's voice scolding in a way that made Sherlock almost ache with jealously. How many times had that frustrated, almost amused and weary tone been aimed at him when they lived together?

The little girl...Ava... clucked her tongue in annoyance.

"Please," she added looking utterly unapologetic.

Sherlock bent closer to the girl, studying her, trying to work out how attached John was to...yes, it had to be his niece. A child thrust upon him by Harriet Watson's out of control lifestyle, selfish ways, and untimely end.

Cornflower blue eyes narrowed suspiciously as he got closer to her level. "I have the chain on the door," she warned, as if that were any kind of a deterrent.

The light behind her shifted as if someone were moving behind.

John.

And this tiny person was standing in the way.

"And I know your Uncle." he said, almost sure that the girl would fold and let him in before John could react.

The girl scowled fiercely up at him, John shining from her as she glared. "I don't have an Uncle," she said, sounding annoyed at the implication.

Beside him, Mycroft tilted his head to one side as if considering something.

Sherlock paused, torn between following that line of thought and just getting in the damned-

John.

It was just a glimpse. The barest glimpse of his profile and his eyes. Eyes that were filled with hurt and betrayal...

And for a second he was up on that roof facing the possibility of death or life without John.

He pushed forward without conscious thought, the chain doing it's job and the girl dimming into the background.

"John, open the door," he demanded.

Pleaded.

But then a familiar and steady hand closed around the girl's shoulder and pulled her away from the door, the flimsy wood a pathetic and infuriating barrier between him and what he wanted.

But John would probably not appreciate Sherlock knocking his front door down.

"Doctor Watson, I understand you may be shocked, but_" Mycroft started to say.

_Shut-up._

"I can get in, you know. Even with a chain" Sherlock snapped over the top of Mycroft.

The moment the words left his mouth he knew it was entirely the wrong thing to say. The door suddenly slammed and Sherlock could hear the feeble locks draw across the door.

But then the light under the door was blocked.

John was barricading the door.

Mycroft let out a long, frustrated, and unimpressed sigh, twirled his umbrella for a moment, and then turned away without another word.

* * *

><p>After hours of banging on the wood and talking to a door, Sherlock slumped opposite on the floor, against the wall. Such was the clientele of the neighbourhood that people just stepped over him without a second look as he stretched his legs out along the width of the dirty hall.<p>

Every time he looked around, he felt sheer unmitigated fury roar up. Yelling at John through the door wasn't helping, so he needed to be quiet.

Focus on John.

Deduce.

Calm.

The mystery of the niece.

And it was John's niece. John was not the type to date women who would walk away from their children. In fact, the more dangerous their lives became, the more John seemed to try and balance it out by reaching out to dull, inane women that were ill-suited to him for that exact reason.

Then why did the child call him Daddy?

Harry Watson.

Sherlock glared at the closed door. Harry Watson had been having an affair while she and the wife...Clara were working things out. He'd deduced at the time that it had been male. For all that Harry Watson seemed a remarkably frank woman when it came to her shortcomings, that had been something she had shifted uncomfortably over, had almost been ashamed of. Ridiculous, really. John had mentioned once that Harry had announced her sexuality as a teenager.

Everyone was allowed to experiment.

Had having a baby been an experiment as well? One to dump on John when it had gone slightly wrong or lost it's glow?

It irritated him. John, in the brief moment that he had seen him, had changed, and not for the better. If one could ignore the swelling around his eye and nose, the deep bruises curling up his throat, and then wince as he moved quickly, then it became obvious. The cheap clothes, vegetarian meal, the child's practical clothing with no frippery, as well as the neighbourhood of the flat itself all indicated that John was struggling to make ends meet. A doctor paid well, but it was clear he no longer worked as one. Perhaps he had not managed to work as a doctor and act as a single parent to his sister's child. John, being John, had sacrificed rather than demand anyone else suffer.

There were tiny cuts and scabs all over his hands that had long pre-dated the fight. Dried skin, stubbed nails, torn cuticles, and strong wrists all indicted bar work.

Far beneath John's capabilities. He was a doctor, a soldier, an assistant consultant.

Mycroft had to have known that. His withdrawal of the protection around John had only happened recently so he had to have been aware of John's financial problems...

_He's in trouble._

As if Sherlock couldn't have found an anonymous way to slip John money had he known. He wouldn't have had to come out of hiding or reveal himself or do anything anywhere near as dramatic as what Mycroft had suggested. He was Sherlock Holmes; he'd engineered a death scene in moments and fooled the world...

But Mycroft had only wanted confirmation. He'd dropped security in the knowledge that no organisation was infallible. And if John had come into an unexpected yet reasonable windfall, then no-one but Mycroft would have been any the wiser.

And John wouldn't be in this mess.

_Idiot. Foolish, blind, arrogant idiot._

Distracted as he was, he missed the moment when the moonlight streamed through under the door again.

It was easy to pick the locks. Terrifyingly easy.

Harder was opening the door.


	3. Part 1: Chapter Two

John sat in the chair, elbows on knees, head in hands. He raised his head as Sherlock opened the door with such synchronisation that Sherlock would have been fooled into believing John had been waiting for the door to open if it weren't for the expression on John's face.

Sherlock stepped in, his steps sounding loud against the threadbare carpet as John watched him. The shadows hid John's face as he sat back.

He was dressed casually in jeans and a jumper. His feet bare. Every movement was stilted and pained, his breathing careful.

The light was at a bad angle to tell anything that he hadn't seen in his brief glimpse hours ago.

He'd imagined this moment too many times to be considered healthy, too many times to excuse as idle musing. The most likely scenario had been anger. Fury. Lectures of how cruel Sherlock had been to leave them believing that he had committed suicide. The frustration that had John raise his voice and then catch himself as if realising he'd lost control.

Less likely had been tears. But then Sherlock hadn't expected him to cry at his grave, so it had to be a considered option.

But this silence was painful. Unwelcome. Unexpected.

Anything was better than this.

And, out of the depths of his memory, rose another day where this had happened. Where John had reacted stoically and had been unresponsive to Sherlock's attempts at...clarifying what he'd meant at Baskerville.

"I did tell you," he said, pitching his voice to annoy John, "I'm far more stubborn than you are, John,"

_Funny doesn't suit you. Stick to ice. _

Nothing.

Then John laughed. A horrible, hysterical sound of someone who was close to screaming or crying and didn't know what to do. A shattering of control that made Sherlock more uncomfortable than the tears that had coursed down John's face at the graveyard. It made him pause and freeze, hating the fact that he simply didn't know what to do.

When John buried his face in his hands again, Sherlock felt free again. Free to move away from it and leave John to regain his composure.

In the kitchen, an uncooked omelette sat waiting. There were crumbs, butter, and a jam stained knife on the side. The child then, sorting out a sandwich.

Children were so terribly messy.

He opened the cupboard by the sink, knowing John's method of organisation and feeling oddly relieved that he hadn't lost that much of John in the years that had passed. There was a picture on the fridge, a child's drawing that seemed wrong somehow. Filling the glass he flickered his eyes at the two doors that led off from the main room.

Bathroom, one bedroom.

That was hopeful then, if John was used to sharing a bedroom with the child.

The thought took him by surprise as he handed the glass to John without comment. He didn't want to prod at why.

John emptied the glass quickly, his fingers tightening on the glass afterwards.

_Stressed. Tired. Close to collapse._

"I realise it must be a shock..." Sherlock begun then stopped himself from the meaningless platitude. Because it was wrong, completely wrong.

It was a surprise to see him. Certainly John hadn't expected to see him on the doorstep but it hadn't been the disbelieving shock that it should have been.

"What?" John said, sounding so tired that the truth of his statement jolted through Sherlock.

John was barely even ruffled to see Sherlock alive.

"You're not shocked." Sherlock said, noting dimly how easy it was to fall back into the habit of talking his thoughts through at John. "You're not in denial or demanding an explanation. You're not even angry..." He hissed suddenly, the answer screaming at him. "You knew."

"That you were alive?" John sat back, looking ill, "Yes," he confirmed, without any real effort or care.

This wasn't right, this wasn't how it was meant to go. John was meant to have moved on, not just...stopped.

"How?" Sherlock demanded, desperate for a distraction from the concrete evidence of how badly he had miscalculated this.

"Can you not figure it out?" John asked blankly, despite the challenge in his question.

Mycroft had been unsure. He hadn't let it slip to John.

Molly? Doubtful. The pair had no reason to meet up, and John would keep away from the topic to spare Molly and her unrequited crush.

Had John spotted something? Had he experienced a nagging doubt at the back of his mind. He had been the only one to fully witness the event.

And the one who it had been designed to fool.

"There was nothing that would have indicated I was alive." Sherlock said after a few minutes. "The funeral and arrangements were flawless."

Correct me, he urged silently, show me what I missed.

But John turned away, closed his eyes and pulled away.

He hadn't seen a thing-

Moriarty.

It stunned Sherlock how much the idea ripped through him. It was all too easy to picture; Moriarty's crowing glee at the fact that John hadn't known, his usual manipulative skew on the situation.

The still of their suspected first meeting burned in Sherlock's head. The defeated air that had been horrifically easy to read.

Moriarty had told John, and John was about burned out trying to cope, sorting out the fact from the fiction. Stretched to breaking point and was so achingly close to that edge that Sherlock wanted to...

He had no idea what he wanted to do.

He wanted to know.

The bruise that wrapped around John's throat was clearer now that the moon was back from behind the clouds. When John offered no reaction, Sherlock reached out, a solitary finger pulling back the collar to study the shoulder that always gave John so much trouble, briefly skating against warm flesh and tender swelling.

It sickened him.

John's eyes opened when he didn't move away and there was, mercifully, a faint smudge of _Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing?_in his eyes.

"Mycroft said you'd had a tussle," He said, seeing the scratches now, the scrapes and the less obvious afflictions, despite the poor light.

John snorted, "I'd hate to see what he calls a real fight,"

There.

John.

His John.

Somehow Sherlock managed to turn the sigh of relief into a normal exhale. The glimmer of normality spurned him on, no longer worried that John might suddenly snap when he looked for the clues he could take.

A fight. A proper one, unlike what John had encountered in the entire time that Sherlock had known him. His attacker had been taller, taken him by surprise, likely from behind, and had been trying to asphyxiate him, as shown from the multiple lines of bruises around his throat and shoulders. The attacker had kept going for it and John had escaped somehow.

Not just escaped. The hand was the only thing he'd tended to, the bandage crisp, as if he'd taken pride. John had won the fight then, probably through the injury, and had been proud enough in that fact that he had been comfortable with that injury.

"Going to give me a blow by blow description?" John asked bitterly, a challenge finally in his voice.

The sharp twang of anger and hurt colouring his words for the first time.

It was like watching someone slowly come back to life and it was intoxicating. It had been far too long since he'd seen emotions dance across John's face, since he'd had cause to attempt to control the expressions John could give for the simple fascination of watching the honest intricacy that he so seldom saw on others.

"Why bother? You were there." He wanted annoyance, disappointment. Instead he received bitter amusement.

Sherlock despised not knowing every single iota of John Watson. There had been a time where he could have predicted where the man would stand in an empty room just from a glance, and how likely it was that he would allow Sherlock to use his phone from the way he climbed the stairs.

It was hateful, being blind-sided.

"So was your brother," John muttered, "Now the two of you can discuss it in all its glorious detail."

Mycroft.

There?

"_The day we saw an associate of Moran's attack John Watson. It took us less than three hours to see what had been happening."_

It had probably taken less than three seconds. Sherlock pulled away, not wanting John to see the surprise on his face or the threatening sneer. Mycroft had led Moriarty who had told John who had probably sneered it at Mycroft, believing that Mycroft was already aware.

What a neat circle of events.

"Indeed," He replied, able to keep his voice even, "You did not go to the hospital."

From John's reaction, Mycroft had clearly suggested it.

Mycroft had conducted a conversation with John and then waited until Sherlock had sent the text days later. He had left John in this mess for what reason? A punishment? A lesson? Sheer damned boredom?

John could barely keep his head up as he shook it. Couldn't see the way Sherlock closed his eyes and clicked his jaw to prevent the words from spewing up and out.

Now was not the time.

He reached for the uninjured hand, noting still the bruises on the knuckles. John had fought ferociously, and the fact that he'd done it while Sherlock had been sitting in some hotel room, bored, almost had his hands tighten around the so utterly capable one he was holding.

"Get up." he said, "You'll do yourself no favours if you fall asleep in the chair."

John practically collapsed against him when he stood. It was as if he was drunk or high. No matter how Sherlock tried, he couldn't get the image of John's usual soldier stance out of his head. The straight back, shoulders back, and head level frame seemed to dance in front of his eyes, taunting him.

Inside the bedroom was the child, asleep on a little bed. John's was next to it, the space so small it stopped Sherlock at the threshold. It was plain, without anything but a wardrobe.

Where were the pictures? The strange keepsakes? The medical books? Unless they were in the bathroom, it seemed John had dumped them, even the ones he kept for purely sentimental value.

The walls were chipped, the bed clean but faded. Old, probably third or fourth hand.  
>Sherlock had done this. One look, one glance at John in five years would have put a stop to all this before it even started.<p>

_I overestimated you_, Mycroft's voice taunted as he aimed John towards the bed.

And, as always, he'd underestimated John, who, despite appearing to be struggling to hold himself upright, pulled away with surprising strength and went for the child instead.

Clearly very attached then. It was unlikely he'd ever entertain any notion of sending the child away.

Sherlock eyed the sleeping girl carefully. Children tended to sleep and go to school, which would spare him from having to put up with it too much. Mrs Hudson might even decide to help; she had indicated that she would have been willing to help John.

"You have a child," he said, unsure how to start the topic. It wasn't as if he'd ever navigated a similar one with John.

"Obviously," John replied in a tone that made Sherlock entertain the idea of smiling. But the way that John was looking at the girl sent nervous shivers through him.

The girl could end them. It was painfully obvious that John's entire world was now currently fast asleep in the bed opposite. But Sherlock had fooled an entire crime syndicate. Coping with a small child would be easy in comparison. He just needed to be careful.

"I know who the mother is," he said, wanting to get that out of the way and determined to phrase it in such a way that John would struggle to find something to react against.

"Then you know there is nothing more to be said on the matter," John replied in the doctor voice that was his version of a roaring declaration of fact.

Sherlock could accept that. After all, Mrs Hudson had told him all that was really needed on the subject. If John wished to close the subject then he could.

Strangely, the conversation had seemed to wake John up. He was alert, eerily reminiscent of a dog that had caught a whiff of a threat to it's household. The shoulders were starting to tense with anger and his mouth was becoming firmer. Even the hand stroking the girl's hair was becoming stiffer, the movements nowhere near as fluid as they had been.

"You're still angry." It was hardly a surprise. More shocking was the way John had resisted it for so long.

"Five years Sherlock. Five whole years." The bite was back.

Thank god. This was familiar. This straining tone that meant John wanted to yell but had too much control to do so.

He wanted more of it.

"I'm aware of that," he replied, addicted to the sound of John's emotions. John snapped his gaze to him, unflinchingly accurate without the light.

"Is it done with then? The cat and mouse game you play with each other?"

Better; now there was frustration, anger, hope, pleading, curiosity, desperation.

"No,"

And every single one of those emotions that he'd just started to soak up vanished, as if John had just flicked a switch at the sound of the word.

"Then why are you here?"

Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to reply to a question that had such a ridiculously obvious answer.

"You should go to sleep John." he said finally, suddenly not wanting to continue the conversation. It was far too...he wasn't sure what it was. Complicated wasn't quite right because he loved complicated.

Draining was better, but still not accurate.

John stared at him for a long moment, so that Sherlock was sure that he was seeing something. But then John ruined that idea.

"You're on my bed."

Of course.

Standing, Sherlock took a step out of John's line, unsure and hating it. And when John buckled,

Sherlock caught him, closing his eyes against his mind's eye that detailed the many injustices that John had suffered.

Painful. Painful was a better word.

And when John collapsed into the bed, still dressed and mostly on the covers, Sherlock couldn't shut the details away any more.

Hurt, tired, humiliated, struggling, aching, too full of pride to ask for help, but so close to begging.

Desperate, lost, shattered.

"I'm sorry."

The words escaped without him intending them to, and the second he heard them he ran from them.

* * *

><p>"He was the one who told you," Sherlock snapped as soon as Mycroft answered the phone.<p>

"Do you have any idea of how late it is," Mycroft began.

"As if you sleep," Sherlock sneered, "You knew John was aware that the suicide was a fake."

"He indicated to me that you were alive and seemed to think it was common knowledge," Mycroft sounded annoyed, "Which by that point it was."

"You should have told me-"

"Why?" Mycroft cut across him. "Because you're the only one that is allowed to keep secrets now?"

"I had a right to know the facts-"

"I did not think it wise to ensure that the first thing you demanded from John Watson was information about James Moriarty." Mycroft snapped, "As it was, I was amazed you managed to keep his name out of the first three minutes."

Sherlock hung up the call in a fit of peevishness.

* * *

><p>It seemed like a wise idea to wait until the child was at school.<p>

John answered the door without greeting him this time, and just turned away to the tiny kitchen to continue making the tea.

With purposefully only one cup.

"You still haven't gone to a doctor-"

"I don't need to go to a doctor." John said, clinking his spoon around the cup in a way he knew irritated Sherlock. "It looks worse than it is."

In the harsh light of day it looked even more startling than it had last night. But John was right; there was nothing broken and nothing that wouldn't heal from time.

"You aren't going to ask how I did it then?" Sherlock asked, blocking the tiny doorway.

John smiled bitterly, "No." He tossed the spoon in the sink. "Are you going to ask about my meetings with Moriarty?"

"No," Sherlock replied easily. Even with this harrowing distance between them, it had been obvious that John would ask that question at some point.

"No?" John asked, taking a sip and leaning his hip against the counter. He kept his right hip from touching it, which indicated yet another injury.

Sherlock shook his head sharply once as he tore his eyes away from the counter and the hip.

"Why are you here?" John asked with a sigh.

"You can't not know the answer to that," Sherlock hissed.

John shook his head, amused, "I'm not buying it Sherlock. We've been apart longer than we knew each other. I doubt I stood out that much."

"Don't be self-deprecating, it doesn't suit you," Sherlock snapped, shifting suddenly.

John's eyes narrowed and then he stared fixedly at a spot above Sherlock's head, "He came to the bar I was working at and-"

"I don't want to know."

He did. He desperately did.

"-threatened my daughter, implied that he'd had something to do with Harry's death and then made me make him a coffee." John's mouth twisted as his eyes snapped and burned with the humiliation.

"With a biscuit," he added, fingers turning white on the cup. "Then he came here-"

"Enough." Sherlock snapped, closing his eyes, "I...I didn't come here for that."

"No," Only one side of John's mouth twisted upwards. "I imagine Mycroft has the fucking transcripts."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at that, "Give him a little more time John, he's only been looking for a week."

As intended, the shock put a momentary pause on John's anger.

"I'm sorry?" John put the cup down slowly and precisely on the side.

"You told Mycroft," Sherlock made some useless gesture with his hands. "He'd convinced himself I was dead."

"No..."John seemed to struggle for a moment, "I...Moriarty..." Then he laughed, as if realising the futility of using Moriarty as a basis for any truth, "Moriarty seemed convinced that Mycroft knew."

"He was," Part of Sherlock bristled at the idea that no-one seemed to think him capable without Mycroft peering over his shoulder. "He was also wrong." It annoyed him how doubtful John seemed at that; there had been a time when John would have looked like that about him.

Squeezing his eyes shut John shook his head, "I...I don't...I can't do this." He opened his eyes but continued to shake. "I have a child, I have responsibilities. I cannot...Just...I'm done," He started to nod slowly, "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'm done with it."

"Moriarty will not-"

"He's done with me," John snapped, "I was the draw to get you to come back. And now you're here, back in his playground again, and you can start trying to kill each other or impress each other all over again. But so help me, Sherlock, I won't watch it. Not again. I will not..." His voice had become scratched and painful and he just shook his head, "I will not stand at your grave again." he said quickly, as if wanting to get rid of the words before he thought about them. "I won't do it."

"I have no intention-"

"You never do." John picked up the tea, clearly wanting something in his hands. "Still happens though."

"You want this to be it then?" Sherlock demanded, backing up threateningly towards the door. "The last time we ever talk, the last time we see each other?"

It backfired.

"Well, Sherlock, the good thing about getting to be your note was that I've already come to terms with that," John remained motionless. He wasn't even tensing to prepare a sudden movement to halt Sherlock. "I'm thinking the second attempt will be a lot easier."

"If that's what you choose to believe." Sherlock said, opening the door.

"Goodbye," John replied firmly with only the slightest quiver in his voice.

* * *

><p>Outside the building, Sherlock had to finally succumb to something he had sworn to never again do since the day Mycroft had marched him to the police station when he was twenty two years old and dumped him at the front desk with the bag of cocaine he hadn't gotten to the night before.<p>

"I need your help," He ground out as Mycroft answered the phone.

* * *

><p>A day later, John texted him.<p>

_Congratulations, you win._

Ordinary people might have felt guilty but Sherlock just felt relief.

* * *

><p>The sound of Mrs Hudson making a fuss had Sherlock leaping from the sofa where he'd been debating about the upcoming meeting with Lestrade and his team.<p>

There was no way of denying it would be awkward. Whether it would be beneficial to minimise or capitalise on that was another story.

"Oh Sherlock, look who it is," Mrs Hudson beamed at him as he descended the stairs. "He's just as bad as you at keeping out of trouble."

The bruises had faded, leaving only the faintest traces of existence. And the soldier stance was returning.

And the attitude.

"A word," John inclined his head at the ceiling with icy precision before turning back to Mrs Hudson with a warmth that was startling in comparison. "Will you be in later?"

"I'm popping out to see a friend later,"

"I won't be long," John was practically ignoring Sherlock now, "Just need to hammer out a few details and then I'll be back down."

"Oh," Mrs Hudson smiled, "I have missed our chats. Especially with him back," she looked over at Sherlock with fond exasperation, "And the experiments." she added.

John shot Sherlock a frosty look, "Twenty minutes," he promised Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock took it as a challenge.

* * *

><p>John was impressive in the way he hid his reaction to returning to the flat. He almost covered up the change of pace in his walk as he entered their sitting room and the way his eyes darted to their chairs and the table. He determinedly didn't look at the bullet holes from one of Sherlock's bored days or at the window where Sherlock had often stood.<p>

He did, however, stop dead at the sight of the kitchen.

"It's big," he said eventually.

"It's empty," Sherlock corrected, sitting in John's chair. "It's not grown,"

"You can never tell with that kitchen," John muttered under his breath as if nothing had changed.

Then he shook himself and turned.

And stared in annoyance at Sherlock's choice of seat.

"I was under the impression you wanted to act as if we were room-mates and nothing more," Sherlock leaned back, "What does it matter what chair I'm sitting in."

"Because I happen to know what you were covered in on the various occasions that you sat in that chair," John jabbed a finger at the still empty one opposite Sherlock.

"As you pointed out John, it has been five years." Sherlock smiled, "Have a seat while we "hammer out the details,""

"No experiments," John said, refusing to sit and jumping straight to it.

"No," Sherlock steepled his fingers, "I said I would compromise, not roll over,"

"No, of course not. That's my job in all this, isn't it?" John took a deep breath and then flung his hands up in defeat, "Do what you want." he said turning away, "I don't even know why I'm bothering to_"

"No toxic substances." Sherlock cut through John. "No explosives. The body parts will be kept in a box or coloured bag so they aren't immediately apparent."

John watched him as if Sherlock were about to admit to insanity any second now. "And that will last for how long?"

"Until the child grows out of the age where she puts things she shouldn't in her mouth and screeches as the sight of human flesh." Surely the child would become acclimatised to his expectations within a year or two.

John shook his head, staring at the corner, "I don't believe you," he said, tautly frank.

"I wouldn't waste the breath saying it if I didn't mean it," Sherlock snapped.

John smiled in a rather assaulting manner. "You can't play the violin at all hours. Children who get woken up in the middle of the night are holy hell the next day."

Sherlock shifted, "I don't have the violin,"

His fingers itched for it, though. A glance at the flicker of guilt that crossed John's eyes told him that he still possessed the instrument, in spite of everything.

Why was the stubborn man fighting him on this?

"You can't just have clients wandering in here at all hours of the day-"

"During school hours?" Sherlock countered twisting his head to John.

John nodded, "Fine," he looked around.

"Any other concerns?" Sherlock asked, as if it were of no consequence to him what John answered.

"One," John narrowed in on Sherlock, "Moriarty isn't to come here again." his voice threw down the clear ultimatum and probably the one condition he had come to demand.

Sherlock fixed him with a long look. A thousand and one replies crossed through his mind in a fraction of a second.

"He wouldn't survive the attempt," Sherlock replied quietly.

John snorted doubtfully, "Just keep the tea parties with the psychopathic consultant criminal to a minimum," he suggested sarcastically.


	4. Part 1: Chapter Three

They were moving in. Today. How had he ever thought he was looking forward to John returning when he was bringing all this noise with him.

And certain complications.

Like the one that was currently standing on tip-toe, examining his Petri-dish of bacteria that he may have forgotten to get rid of.

"You know my Daddy," she told him as he moved the dish out of her reach.

Sherlock eyed her up. He hadn't realised they made jeans that small, or trainers. It was strange seeing adults' clothes in child size. Clearly John was unsure about hair styles because her hair was in another scruffy ponytail.

"Yes." He settled for saying, throwing a hopeful look at the stairs. John's anger with him had resulted in him being overprotective when it came to Sherlock interacting with the child, which was one of the greatest benefits of the situation.

"We live here now,"

It was embarrassing that he wanted to retreat from his own kitchen, but honestly, it was like talking to Anderson.

Except snapping back would result in John's temper being unleashed.

"Clearly," he said, calculating how far he needed to push his experiments back from the edge so that she couldn't touch anything. Maybe if he ignored her she would go away.

"You live here too."

It was like being tortured. He was agonisingly helpless and unable to fight back. Maybe there was something in the immediate vicinity to distract her. But he was suddenly very aware that he didn't know what was appropriate for small children to play with.

He made some affirmative noise.

"Daddy won't stay mad at you forever, he's happy to see you again."

What?

By the time Sherlock had turned to stare at her she was running out of the kitchen and thudding up the stairs and Sherlock was just left in a room with boxes waiting to be taken upstairs.

It annoyed him that he spent a good five minutes lingering over that last statement. Coming from a child who thought it was necessary to point out that they all lived under the same roof, he was probably giving her over-active imagination far too much credit.

* * *

><p>Lestrade's office hadn't changed in the five years since Sherlock had been away. There were precious few officers about as he entered the building. A few gave him a questioning looks as if they knew him from somewhere but couldn't quite place him.<p>

The office itself was still organised in Lestrade's own particular way. Sherlock opened the file with the keys he had liberated yesterday and pulled out the unsolved cold cases. Throwing them carelessly onto the desk he sat in Lestrade's surprisingly comfortable chair and started to separate them into piles

_Obvious_  
><em>Potential<em>  
><em>Interesting.<em>

He was looking through the penultimate file when he heard Lestrade's distinctive voice in the bullpen. Sherlock continued on with his work, wondering if the rest of them were in yet.

The door handle turned.

"Fucking..." Lestrade yelled in shock as his coffee smashed to the floor. He sounded as if he were hyperventilating and Sherlock glanced up from the witness statement to briefly check that he wasn't going to collapse.

Lestrade was grey with shock, his eyes wide and gasping for breath.

Well, at least he'd finally managed to shock someone properly. It had been one of the small secret desires he'd had when he decided to come back.

No one had even bothered to ask him how he'd managed it yet. It was dreadfully annoying.

"J...Jesus, what..." Lestrade was scrubbing his hand over his mouth and then his eyes. "You...you wanker!"

"Must we go through this?" Sherlock asked, turning his attention back to the cold case. "You have an embarrassing amount of these," he waved one of the files from the obvious pile at Lestrade.

"You can't..." Lestrade was still breathing heavily, "You..."

Then he stepped back and slammed the door, shutting himself out of the room. Sherlock watched the door carefully over the paper and then twisted the chair slightly so he was angled just so to look through the slanted blinds covering the window to see some of the officers coming forward, looking concerned.

Lestrade remained out of his eye-line. But he could see Donovan, who had changed her hair, and Anderson among those stepping forward.

Excellent.

"Would you just bloody check it for me?" Lestrade exploded outside the door.

It was Donovan who opened the door this time.

"Good morning Sally," Sherlock greeted warmly, looking at the crime scene photographs. "And how are we today?"

There was no reply. In fact, there was dead silence everywhere.

"I take it Mycroft forgot to send you a message," Sherlock sighed, enjoying himself suddenly. How often was it that one got to be brought back to life?

"You're all seeing this, right?" Lestrade asked gruffly. When Sherlock glanced over at him he seemed to be regaining his composure slightly.

"Yes." Donovan was frozen in the doorway looking as if her worst nightmare had just come true.

He half hoped it had.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and stared upwards for a long time.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Inspector?"

"Get out of my chair."

* * *

><p>"So you're alive?"<p>

"Clearly," Sherlock shifted in the chair opposite Lestrade's that was no-where near as comfortable.

"Christ, I can't get my head round this," Lestrade couldn't stop staring at him. "I went to your funeral."

"I know,"

Lestrade's look of shock changed suddenly, "You were there?" he asked sounding disgusted.

"I was informed." Sherlock shook his head, "Really, would I go to my own funeral if I was trying to convince everyone that I was dead?"

"Yes," Lestrade shook his head, "You're bloody well arrogant enough to do it,"

Sherlock glanced away and at the window which gave him a fractured image of what was happening behind him. "John told me." he said eventually.

"You've seen him?" Lestrade asked, sounding a bit softer now.

Sherlock caught himself nodding distractedly and pulled himself back to the reason he was there.

"These cases," he tapped a finger on them, "Do you want my input?"

Lestrade sighed and leant back, "It can't be the way it was before, Sherlock. No blogs, no showing off, no playing games with Moriarty."

"I can assure you there will be no more blogs," Sherlock snapped. "As for Moriarty...I suspect he will target me again sooner or later. But he won't use the same method twice."

Lestrade looked away, "You need to come to me if it happens."

"What possible use would it have done-"

"It would have done something." Lestrade yelled suddenly, then seemed to catch himself, "You forced us all to operate blind when you pulled away to sort things out on your own. You knew what he was going to do and you played us because it fit into your plans."

"It worked-"

"You don't always know best," Lestrade snarled. He smiled wolfishly, "Have them," he pushed the pile towards Sherlock but his hand stayed on the pile when Sherlock reached for them. "I want step-by-step accounts and reasoning. I want evidence that I can use in court and that can never be used against me or against you."

"You're being absurd." Sherlock glared, "And you'll slow me down,"

"Then don't have them," Lestrade pulled the folders back.

Sherlock allowed a smile to ghost across his face, "Do you expect me to believe that you would rather have these remained unsolved? Tut, tut Inspector, I had expected more of you."

Lestrade paled.

Then caught Sherlock's hand and yanked him across the desk.

"It isn't always about you," He snarled, "My squad spent months cleaning up your mess, going over and over the old cases and putting the new ones at risk to protect the reputation of Scotland Yard. And, after all that work, what do we discover? That you were right. In every single one of them. Do you have any idea how much manpower was wasted? How thinly stretched we were? How horrified we were that we'd been taken for fools and lost you because of it?" Lestrade threw his hand away as if it were something filthy. "And you have the audacity to come in here and act as if it was all a big joke and nothing really happened?"

Sherlock settled himself back down into his seat as if trying to get comfortable and ignoring the strange feelings that were twisting inside of him.

"Think it over," Lestrade scooped the files up. "'Cause I won't put my people through that again."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the side of the chair, stopping when he recognised the beat as the one that Moriarty had drummed out when they'd had tea together.

Lestrade should have been promoted by now. It was hard to tell with the man whether he'd refused an offer or whether one hadn't been made because of the scandal that Sherlock had caused; the man was a consummate professional about such things. And he looked worn and ragged, which probably meant he and his wife had finally given up on the disastrous marriage within the last year.

"Don't do that," Lestrade huffed, taking a deep sip of the coffee someone had gotten to replace the one he'd dropped earlier.

"How detailed do you want these notes to be?" Sherlock asked eventually.

Surprise flickered across Lestrade's face as if he had expected there to be more of a fight. "Enough that I can follow them during the case and then written up for..." Lestrade floundered and then a hint of a grin crossed his face, "Anderson to make sense of."

Sherlock hissed in displeasure.

"You could ask John to help. Half the time I used his blogs when trying to explain to a jury. That was, of course, on the rare occasion he wrote it up in time for the court case." Lestrade added.

"That is unlikely to happen," Sherlock confessed tracing the wood grains in the chairs arm instead of tapping.

"He hasn't forgiven you then?" Lestrade asked.

"He will," Sherlock said simply, because it was the utter truth, "But it will never be what it was."

"Have you met the kid?"

Sherlock nodded, "John has returned to Baker Street."

Despite Sherlock being relatively sure that there hadn't been a catch in his voice or any other indication of quite how difficult that was Lestrade seemed to, for once, make some intuitive leap. "That doesn't mean a thing though does it?" Lestrade asked after a moment.

Sherlock curled his lip in annoyance, not wishing to dignify the comment with an answer.

"So you don't want my help?"

The question was asked so lightly that Sherlock almost felt confused, "What possible use could you be?"

"Good bye Sherlock," Lestrade took another swig of his coffee and sat back with a challenging smile, "Have a few days to think my offer over."

It was the first time he'd ever left the office feeling more confused than when he'd entered.

* * *

><p>Unwilling to endure company, he'd found himself wandering around London and somehow ending up, of all places, on the pavement at Barts.<p>

Slowly he craned his neck up to the roof, stepping back and trying to see it as John must have done. The blood, the crowds, the tears, the screams.

Uncomfortable, he stepped back, gripping onto the wall as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

He couldn't regret it. He couldn't regret keeping them alive that day or keeping them safe. But he'd never expected that they would react as they had.

_Mrs Hudson's tears._

_Lestrade's fury._

_John's agony._

"You should not be here," Mycroft said from the alleyway. "It is best if people forget."

"What raised your suspicion?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the advice.

Mycroft walked out of the alleyway and joined Sherlock, "You would never had made him watch if you didn't have to."

"He's seen worse," Sherlock said tightly, and it was true. How often had John woken up in the night from some half lurking memory of his time as a soldier.

"Worse?" Mycroft enquired politely, "I saw the statement," For a horrific moment Sherlock dreaded that Mycroft would actually present him with it but his brother simply shifted where he stood as if to get a better angle. "You were very thorough,"

Sherlock raised his eyes once again to the roof top. He hadn't felt thorough when he'd stood on the edge with Moriarty bleeding behind him.

"Go home, Sherlock." Mycroft said into their silence.

* * *

><p>John was sitting in his chair when Sherlock got back, an untouched beer in his hand as he stared into space.<p>

"Productive day?" John asked, taking what had to be his first sip.

Not now.

Sherlock ignored him and started to unwind his scarf.

"I saw Greg today."

Greg? Oh, Lestrade.

Sherlock slipped his coat off, folded it, and placed it over his scarf on the back of the chair.

"You're a bastard for doing that to him," John said taking another sip and turning. "He didn't deserve that, Sherlock."

Sherlock gripped the chair through his coat and closed his eyes, trying to steady himself.

"None of us deserved it," John added, turning away again.

"Three assassins, three names, two call off codes."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John stiffen and turn again, properly turning this time to stare at him.

"What?" John asked as he put the beer down. "What does that mean?"

"There were three assassins, with three names. Moriarty could call them off with a verbal code."

"What do you mean three-" John cut himself off and looked like he'd been punched, "Oh god."

"You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade." Sherlock stared at his hands as they gripped his coat and noted how pale they suddenly seemed. He'd been spending more time than usual just sitting indoors.

He needed a case.

John's breathing was erupting in staccato jabs that sounded viciously painful in the quiet of the flat.

"You said two call off codes," John said standing slowly, "What was the other one?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes to the table, noting the thin plastic school bag that was sat among his notes.

"Sherlock-" John choked out as if pleading for Sherlock to deny the obvious.

"Yes," he said, confirming it. "Fall," he said despising the sound of it on his own lips. "When I tried to get his code, he faked a suicide and was unconscious."

He turned not quite daring to look at John yet, "The sniper, the first one that would start it all off was trained on you. He was watching you through his scope. The call was recorded. Any indication that I hadn't fallen would have resulted in your immediate execution."

John was leaning against the back of the chair, gripping onto it as if it were the only thing in the world keeping him upright.

"They know you're alive," John said after a while, his throat sounding utterly raw.

"But we're playing a new game now," Sherlock spat, "Different rules." He hesitated, hating that he did, "I can't see any way of keeping you out of this," he confessed, noting the fraying handle and ink stain on the school bag.

He stood and took his coat and scarf to dump them in his room, suddenly wanting space. It was at least half an hour before he ventured out again. John hadn't gone upstairs so clearly he still felt there was more to be said on the matter.

Warily, Sherlock sat in his chair. John was almost all the way through the bottle now, and was twisting the neck in between two fingers as he held it. Tired blue eyes followed his every movement without comment.

"It's a pity Anderson was there," John said eventually, "You could have scared the shit out of him when you turned up at a crime scene."

"It wasn't to be," Sherlock said, selecting the response that was least likely annoy John. In turn, John narrowed his eyes and studied him silently.

"Do you know what Lestrade said to me, on our first case?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"He said that you were a great man." John took a sip. "And that someday, if we were lucky, you might even be a good one."

"I'm sure he'd retract that statement now," Sherlock muttered, wishing he'd thought to get a drink before returning to this conversation.

"Funny, I was just thinking that this might be the first time in years that he'd actually believe it again."

Traitorous hope bloomed in his chest and it took everything Sherlock had to squash it back down, swallow it, so the emotion didn't show on his face.

He had no idea what to say to that.

"I have a question," John said, stirring himself suddenly and placing the beer on the side. "Just one."

It panicked Sherlock that he couldn't guess what John was going to ask. Too many emotions, too many possibilities, too many things left unsaid between them.

He nodded tightly, still not trusting his own voice.

John leaned forward, scrubbing his hands together, elbows on his knees, linking his fingers, and meeting Sherlock's gaze, stare for stare.

"Are you ever going to buy any sodding milk?"

He couldn't help the laugh that flew out of him. The sheer relief that the question gave.

John smiled and stood, taking his beer, "Good night, Sherlock."


	5. Part 1: Chapter Four

Hi!

Thanks to the wonderfully patient proudtobeathreatrekid for editing this chapter. Especially as I took it into my head halfway through to write in a differnt tense and then had to go back and change it all. That's what writing around lesson plans does to you! If there is any of the bad tenses left over then that's all my fault.

Hope you enjoy and warnings for the cusp of slash ahead!

* * *

><p>It was unusual to wake up knowing that someone was watching.<p>

Cracking open an eye, Sherlock stared up at the curious face of the child. She was eating some pastry thing that looked utterly foul and was in danger of getting crumbs all over him.

"That isn't where you sleep, is it?" she asked, sounding doubtful.

Sherlock sat up from where he lay on the sofa and looked into the kitchen.

"Daddy's in the shower," she explained, seeing him look around. "He told me to be quiet." she took another bite.

"Are you meant to eat that for breakfast?" He asked, staring at the colourful icing.

She shrugged her shoulders, "It was in the cupboard."

His back ached from the awkward position; he hadn't intended to fall asleep at all but apparently the relief from the previous night's conversation had relaxed him enough for sleep. "Is it a school day?" he asked hopefully.

The child nodded, "We have singing assembly today," she grinned, as if that were a good thing.

And then stared at him expectantly.

Again.

Uncomfortable, he grabbed the remote from the table and thrust it at her. "There," he said, waving a hand at the television as he stood up.

He needed coffee. And if John was in the shower it meant he was going to have to get it himself.

He was halfway to the kettle when an horrendously cheerful voice sung a song about being a nice person.

He changed his direction and went back to bed instead.

* * *

><p>He emerged after they had left for the day. He had a vague notion that today was a work day for John,but he wasn't sure.<p>

It was hardly important, as long as John was back doing something that fitted his talents. Either way it was lunch time before John popped back in.

"You don't have to hide in your room every time Ava's here," John said, dumping his boots bag on the table and opening up a pasta salad thing.

Sherlock eyed the food with distaste and continued to examine the growing bacteria.

"I am not hiding," he replied haughtily.

"So when I get back in with her at about quarter to four you'll be out here?" John asked, stabbing a chunk with his fork.

"Two weeks ago you didn't want me anywhere near her," Sherlock muttered, putting down the bacteria in silent acknowledgement that John wasn't going to stop talking long enough for him to study the cultures properly.

"A lot can change in two weeks," John said, flipping open the TV guide.

"You seem...better," Sherlock said, turning to watch him.

"It's amazing how much better you can feel when you have all the facts and don't think your friend is an arrogant, selfish bastard." John said, mildly flashing a smile as he turned a page. "If this is going to work again, Sherlock, you can't ignore Ava."

"I let her put the television on," Sherlock had spent hours deleting the memory of the singing.

John sighed, "Just try."

Sensing an opportunity, Sherlock sat down in the chair opposite.

"Did Lestrade tell you what was discussed yesterday?" Sherlock asked, scrunching his nose up at the salad now that he was even closer.

John paused and looked up at him, "He was telling me how you sat in his chair?" he said, wiping some of the sauce off his lower lip.

"His conditions for allowing me to work on his cases," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers under his chin.

John shook his head and narrowed his eyes when he caught something and then put his fork down.

"What do I have to give you in exchange?" he asked, sounding irritated all over again and folding his arms as he leaned back.

_Crossed arms,_  
><em>leaning back,<em>  
><em>pulling away.<em>

"Never mind," Sherlock said, standing. "I'll be back late,"

John didn't say anything as he walked down the stairs and out.

"Fine,"

* * *

><p>Lestrade paused in his typing which, Sherlock was relieved to note was somewhat quicker than John's.<p>

"I told you to think about-"

"I need a case," Sherlock snapped, just about resisting the urge to pace, instead allowing his fingers to flicker around each other as he clasped his hands behind his back.

Lestrade studied him in such a way that Sherlock knew he'd say no if he could. But the cold cases were burning a hole in the department's load again. No-one would care if Sherlock saw murders that were years old and no longer of interest to the press.

Slamming a drawer closed in a way that Sherlock assumed was meant to be pointed, Lestrade opened up the filing cabinet using, Sherlock noted, a different key.

That wouldn't be hard to relieve the inspector of.

To his utter irritation, Lestrade handed him a pile of folders. A glance at the top one told Sherlock that he'd been given the pile he'd sorted into the obvious section few days ago.

"These first," Lestrade growled at him. "It should be easy to keep notes with these."

A test.

Fine.

Without another word, Sherlock snatched them from Lestrade's hand and stormed back out the way he came.

* * *

><p>They didn't require much leg work. In fact, what they did require was a chair, a laptop and appropriate ranting space.<p>

The flat was out of bounds for obvious reasons. His self-imposed banishment to make it seem as if a five year old was not kicking him out of his own living space was somewhat problematic.

Still, he managed to get some work done between being thrown out of several libraries and one or two particularly snotty cafes.

* * *

><p>"You're being an idiot."<p>

The day had been long enough and frustrating enough that Sherlock actually had to bite back the retort that sounded a little bit too childish even in his own head.

"Are you honestly going to avoid coming home now because I've noticed that you're scared of a little girl?" John continued.

Deciding not to dignify John's question with an answer, Sherlock just walked past him, scooped up the laptop and made to move back past him again.

Only John decided to place his foot on the coffee table.

"Sherlock?" John takes a very long, very deep breath as if about to do something unbearable. "What were you going to ask?"

"I'm busy," Sherlock snapped, glancing at the other side of the table, which was leg free, and trying to decide how much he would lose standing in John's eyes if he just admitted defeat and walked around the other way.

"Doing?" John asked, unwilling to let it go.

"My job," Sherlock huffed, "You're getting mud on Mrs Hudson's clean table."

"Says the man who got brain matter ingrained in her sink," John huffed, but dropped his feet all the same, freeing Sherlock.

"That was for the greater good," Sherlock muttered, glancing between John and his own bedroom door.

John frowned, catching his glance, and turned as if expecting to see something. When he looked back there was a shadow of hurt on his face.

"I...I'll get out of your way," John muttered, standing stiffly. "Good night."

There was a momentary flutter where Sherlock considered calling him back. But what would be the point? He'd gotten the living room back to himself, as he'd wanted. Calling John back would surely be counter-productive.

Wouldn't it?

* * *

><p>It was only when he'd gotten down to the bottom of the pile that he encountered something interesting.<p>

And not the good kind of interesting.

It was strange. Before John, there had been no need to define what kind of interesting a case was. It had started out as simply a way to avoid that look. The look that most of the detectives gave him when he started to solve a case or the look that he'd been used to receiving when he'd deduced a person. It had been distasteful to have John look at him in the same way, so he had tested ways to avoid it. Then there had been the need to work out which ones he could expect John to smile over and not react with a fuming glare when Sherlock started to enjoy himself. At some point he had started to assimilate the attitude the further and further Moriarty had pushed.

Mrs Anna Stewart had been killed via an impossible shot from an open window just over five years ago. She'd lived about seven minutes away.

Mr Ronald Adair had been shot in the same method on the 1st November this year on Park Lane.

Sherlock had spent enough time in Moriarty's world to recognise Moran's handy-work when he saw it. And the date couldn't be a coincidence.

The day he'd sat outside John's apartment and waited for the stubborn man to open the door.

The second file was thicker than Mrs Anna Stewart's. It would appear that Stewart was probably a target that Moran had taken care of while he'd been hanging around in London just waiting for a reason to be aimed at John had there been the faintest breath of a word that Sherlock was alive. Adair seemed an unlikely target; though he had been a gambler. Moran liked a flutter too; likely it was more realistic that Adair had pissed Moran off and Moran had taken the opportunity to use him to send a very clear message.

Sherlock flicked through the pictures with his magnifying lens.

Spray painted on the wall opposite the window of the crime scene was a message that forensics hadn't intended to pick up.

_The __Game's __change. Rules gone. Round four. xoxo _

* * *

><p>It would have been impossible to keep John inside forever. Besides, Moran was an excellent shot and John would eventually walk past a window.<p>

Which, unfortunately, left Sherlock with only one deeply distasteful option.

Mycroft.

"You do not think that informing John about the issue would work better?" Mycroft asked silkily as they watched the trained pair scurry about the empty flat.

"It either will happen or it won't." Sherlock fought to keep his tone nonchalant. "Why worry him?"

But Mycroft didn't seem fooled. The only mercy was that he didn't probe any further either. Across the road, Sherlock could see John in the window of 221b with the child in his arms, rocking her as he stared thoughtfully out the window and at the street below as the sky turned the moody blue-grey of dusk.

They were startlingly clear at this angle and so very vulnerable.

"You trust these people?" he heard himself ask dimly.

"Do credit me with some intelligence," Mycroft snapped as he parted to the side, allowing an ordinary looking man to walk through with even more surveillance equipment.

It was irritatingly hard to keep his fingers from tugging out his phone from his coat pocket and texting John to order him back from the window.

Distracting.

"Moriarty won't strike unless he has your attention." Mycroft said as the couple continued to set things up. "A simple shot from nowhere is unlikely to happen."

Unlikely, yes. Astoundingly unlikely. But not impossible. And the idea of walking back into the flat one day to find John dead on the floor would be highly...

Sherlock shook the thought away as useless. Speculating about possible reactions would be foolish and a waste of time. It would change nothing and solve nothing.

* * *

><p>John had gone to bed by the time Sherlock got back in. He had an early start at the practice tomorrow and was taking the child in early.<p>

Their schedule was so easy to remember, so routine and predictable. Once upon a time Sherlock had John running over half of London and subbing for doctors at surgeries all over the place. Once it would have actually taken some small effort to predict where John would be at any given day.

He finished off typing out the notes and sent them off to Lestrade, minus Moran's cases.

And then Sherlock was bored again.

At half four he made his way upstairs and opened their door.

He hadn't checked the room since they'd moved in. It had seemed like forbidden territory guarded by John's niece which warded him off the way a locked door couldn't. The girl was currently twisted in her bedclothes into a tiny ball, only partly visible and defying gravity given how far off the bed she was.

John, on the other hand, looked as if he'd fallen asleep where he'd hit the bed.

Glancing between the two,Sherlock considered moving the child back onto the bed properly. After all, if she fell out of the bed then John was likely to be woken up by it.

But she could wake up when he tried to move her.

It would be best to leave her to it.

Satisfied that the window was closed, the curtain was drawn and they were both at the wrong angle to be in danger, he went back downstairs.

* * *

><p>They'd had a big meal for dinner. Spaghetti Bolognese, if the stains around the child's mouth were anything to go by. And for the first time in a long while, John had been happy at work and stood straighter.<p>

He even greeted Sherlock with an exasperated comment that, from his waiting smile, was meant to be a joke.

"Thank you," John said as the child, after finally wiping the dinner off her face, went up to do whatever it was children did before they needed to get ready for bed.

"For?"

"Greg told me. That you'd sent him the notes for the cases you were solving," John gestured at the laptop. "He was checking whether I'd given you a hand."

Interfering idiot.

"I am more than capable of writing up facts." Sherlock replied, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling that he'd counted far too many times before. "Especially as I don't indulge in gossip and fantasy the way you do."

John sniffed, "Greg said it was the dullest thing he'd ever read." John took a deep sip of his tea, watching Sherlock steadily over the top of the mug. "He needs it translated for juries."

"They're dull cases." It annoyed Sherlock that he sounded as if he were protesting. "It still doesn't explain why you felt the need to thank me," he added, determined to steer them off the subject.

"For not asking me to do it." John flipped through the channels, wincing at the choices before settling on some documentary. "The other day, you were going to ask me, weren't you?"

"You did have previous experience in it," Sherlock replied, finally flicking his eyes towards John, rather than watch him in the reflection on the glass. "Then I remembered that you tend to feel the need to show everyone my "human side and my flaws", so I reconsidered."

Why was it so gratifying that he could still make John chuckle?"Have you remembered the solar system yet?" he asked, sitting back, finally at ease.

"Why would I bother, you clearly think yourself an expert."

"Well...I have more knowledge than the great Sherlock Holmes. It's the definition of expert, isn't it?"

A smile tugged at Sherlock's lips, "Useless knowledge,"

"I'll remember that the next time you need to know about the stars, gossip and the army."

"And buying the shopping." Sherlock added, "Have you improved with chip and pin machines?"

"Sod off."

* * *

><p>It was the first evening that he didn't feel as if he wanted to scream and shake something. The first evening that he felt confident enough to whine at the television and therefore at John's choice in regards to what was on the television. The first time he could demand a cup of tea without John's back going rigid.<p>

And the weight he'd been feeling over the past few weeks eased, even though he hadn't realised he was carrying it.

"Daddy?"

The child. It didn't usually take long for John to get her off to sleep. He watched as she demanded a story and had to remind her not to pull the shower curtain when she brushed her teeth.

John shot him an amused and surprised look at that and seemed reluctant to get up and leave their television argument.

Good.

"Can you tell me more stories about the world's greatest detective?"

Sherlock twisted to stare at the child. There was no guile in her eyes, though she seemed pleased with the attention that had been suddenly aimed at her.

A glance at a pale John confirmed that Sherlock had indeed been the subject of these stories. It wasn't surprising really, given John's blog.

But it was John's reaction that was interesting. A good, fascinating interesting. John's mind seemed to suddenly be racing and his earlier reluctance was replaced with sudden movement, his hands a thrilling study of panic in a man who could shoot under pressure with his hand deathly still.

"Why don't we do your teeth together." John asked louder than was necessary, clearly eager to remove the child from Sherlock's sight.

Or hearing range.

A mystery, then. His interest peaked; Sherlock watched the pair, studying the girl as she stared up at John looking confused. She could tell that something wasn't right, but she wasn't sure what. Her look of concern was almost identical to John's look.

In fact, in the half light of the lamp and the television, as the shadows played with their faces and the girl used John's expression, they were incredibly similar.  
>There was something...good about that.<p>

The girl glanced between them and then back up at John, looking as if she were trying to be helpful. "I want to know if he ever finds out that his side kick lov_"

"Upstairs," John's voice cut over hers with sudden desperation, as if just by speaking louder he could erase her words.

And it wasn't her question, so much as John's reaction that made Sherlock stare.

Loves.

_Don't jump to conclusions. Not enough data._

But there was. John wouldn't even look at him after the girl ran upstairs. His breathing was stuttered and shaken. His head was bowed.

Love.

John wouldn't have this reaction to a confession of platonic love. Would he?

The answer wasn't clear. Still not enough data.

"Delete that."

_No_.

"Impossible," Sherlock replied.

It was far too interesting.

* * *

><p>John went up to put the child to bed, which gave Sherlock a chance to think.<p>

But no matter what he did, he found he couldn't press past that question.

What exactly had been meant by love?

All other questions and deductions were useless until he had that answer. All thoughts and reactions were unnecessary until he had that answer.

So he had to wait.

It wasn't a surprise that John ventured back downstairs. John was many things, but never a coward. Instead, he walked into the room where Sherlock was staring out of the window, and waited.

"What did she mean?" he asked eventually.

"I told her stories about you," John had disappeared into professional mode which was always exceedingly irritating to deal with. "She doesn't know they're about you, though."

"You and me," Sherlock corrected. "The stories are about you and me."

"Yes."

Turning away from the window, Sherlock studied Johns silhouette.

The man was getting ready to lie.

"And your love for me," the words sounded so loud and brave in their quiet.

"There are many types of love in the world." John replied. It was somewhat strange to see John using the techniques that Sherlock himself had taught John years ago.

_Tell as much of the truth that you can, believe the story when you lie,__and evade whatever is in between._

He needed to hear it. He needed to push at it and work out exactly what it was that John felt.

He needed to know.

"Which did she mean?" Sherlock approached John steadily and didn't stop until he was closer to John that he'd been in years.

John wouldn't step back, despite the fact that Sherlock was so clearly invading his space. A muscle in his jaw flickered as Sherlock took yet another step closer and bent his head slightly.

Keeping an eye on his pupils, Sherlock reached down to brush his fingers against John's wrist. But this wasn't Irene Adler; John had seen him do this before, had scolded him about it before. Somehow he managed to yank his wrist away without backing up.

"Don't do this," he said quietly.

"Then which did she mean?" Sherlock asked, just as quietly.

"You know the answer," John swallowed tightly, locking his jaw. "Stop."

But he didn't. He could see part of it, but the emotion was complicated. So very, very complicated and so hard to pin down to properly examine. So Sherlock bent even closer, watching the way that John's eyes darted over his face and then looked past his shoulder, as if trying to ignore just how close Sherlock was. Sherlock tilted his head slightly to avoid their noses bumping. They were now sharing breath they were so close.

John's fists were balled and white with tension and his breathing hitched.

He was tempted, then. Sherlock ignored any reaction he might have had to that realisation and just kept pushing.

He needed as much data as possible for when he dissected this revelation later. It was unlikely that John would stay in the room much longer.

"When?"

When had been the last time that John had dated before the roof top? When had been the day that John had worked out his feelings and had started to hide them?

When should have been the point that Sherlock realised?

John tried to smile it away but his mouth couldn't quite manage it. Their lips almost brushed from the failed expression. "Does that matter?"

Yes. But he could put it aside for now. John's eyes kept flashing to him and he was almost shaking with effort. He wouldn't last much longer.

"Stop it," John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head. The movement had him catching John's lips in a touch that almost wasn't there and a fierce tremor shook through John.

"Why?" he asked, making their lips brush again.

"I'm not here to alleviate your boredom," John tried to snarl but was limited in the movements he could make.

"No, you're not." Sherlock tilted his head further, scraping his nose against John's cheek. He could feel the sudden intake of breath against his neck as John's breathing started to stagger.

"You're not doing this for any reason other than to satisfy your own curiosity," John forced the words out, the harshness hitting Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock pulled away fractionally, unwilling to admit that, at this moment, John might have a point. But the small movement was enough to break the spell that had been placed over John and suddenly he was gone, storming through the door with such forceful silence that Sherlock just stayed where he was.


	6. Part 1: Chapter Five

Hello!

Thanks for the alerts, reviews and favourites. And thanks to proudtobeatheatre kid for editing this :)

Warnings: We are entering firm pre-slash territory now. Don't like then don't read!

Enjoy :)

* * *

><p>It had been before he left.<p>

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair as he sipped at the brandy he'd given into. His initial questioning had been correct; John indeed had been bereft of a date long before the roof top and hadn't seemed bothered about it.

After the business at Baskerville, though. John had been willing to meet with the therapist when Sherlock had sent him her picture and his reaction to their fight and Sherlock's subsequent experiment hadn't been right for one in love.

When, then? When had been that moment, the moment that John had known and Sherlock should have seen?

There was something. Something that John had said and Sherlock hadn't followed up on. An expression, a strange comment, something that hadn't added up properly.

And then he saw it.

"_You're this far from famous."_

"_Oh, it will pass."_

"_It had better pass, because the press will turn, Sherlock, they always turn, and they'll turn on you."_

"_It really bothers you?"_

"_What?"_

"_What people think of me," _

"_Yes."_

"_About me? I don't understand; why would it upset you?"_

And there had been a look. A sad, unsure look that had passed when John had ducked his head and swallowed it back with some rubbish about keeping a low profile.

The day Moriarty had walked into the tower of London and tricked them all.

Tilting his head back to the ceiling, Sherlock stroked a spare finger from the hand that was holding the brandy over the glass tumbler.

John had been single almost three months previous to that. Or at least there had been no doe eyed women glaring at him across the room for interrupting whatever activity they were engaged in. John had been uncomfortable seeing someone else when they didn't have his full interest which suggested that the feelings had had towards Sherlock included a sexual component.

The annoyance at everyone assuming they were a couple had disappeared too and had been replaced with a tired correction, suggesting that John had assumed Sherlock wasn't at all interested.

Which led to the important question.

John was vital. The time away had shown Sherlock that. The man was as necessary as the puzzles that kept Sherlock alive and the city that comforted him. No matter what Sherlock had done there had never been any denying that John was always going to be important.

But how important?

Sherlock, despite rumours to the contrary, was hardly a virgin. One didn't dive head first into the underground world and not experiment. But it had always been about the release, the messy urge that could never be the things in films or stories. Want, take, fuck. It was simple, uncomplicated and an itch that he occasionally indulged now that he wasn't an idiotic twenty odd year old. A release.

A relationship with John would be complicated. It couldn't be anything else. And not the good kind of complicated that Sherlock usually indulged in, but rather the kind that would force him to consider every move in a new light. What one did to a friend, one could not do to a lover. And John guarded those he loved fiercely. Any attempt at deepening their relationship would risk John feeling the right to be protective, to take and ask to be given.

Sherlock closed his eyes unsure he was willing to allow that.

But the benefits...

To have John. To explore him in every manner, to know that he could demand what John had kept back and discover everything about him. To be indulge in that fascinating mix of utterly ordinary and supremely extraordinary...the idea made something flutter.

There was no other point in his life at which Sherlock had been happier than when they had shared lives; when they worked together, lived together and laughed together. No other time when he had gone out of his way to make someone smile. Considering it he could admit that he often had deducted quicker when John was around in an effort to impress.

It was tempting. Yet John would ask the same in return; would ask for a partnership in the important things.

Sherlock took another sip and thought.

* * *

><p>The sight of John the following night, asleep on the sofa, wasn't an unfamiliar one. It was, however, different to what he was used to. Years ago, when it had just been the two of them, John had fallen asleep watching some drivel on the television or because Sherlock had kept him up until the early hours of the morning until John's eyes could no longer stay open. There had even been the odd occasion where John had come downstairs to escape the nightmares that reared up with no real rhyme or reason under some pretence that he was struggling to sleep.<p>

He'd never, in Sherlock's memory, come downstairs prepared to sleep on the sofa.

There were pillows and a blanket and pyjamas.

Clearly, John was fearful of disturbing the child's sleep. Which, given that children seemed to be able to sleep in the most bizarre and noisy places ever known, seemed utterly illogical.

But then, from what he'd seen, parenting, on the whole, was rather illogical.

Still, it seemed wrong that John with his bad shoulder, leg and sleeping habits should get the sofa.

Though it did allow Sherlock a rare chance to just...observe.

Especially after the previous nights.

Feeling like a child about to be turned loose in a sweet shop, Sherlock drew the chair close to John's head and sat in it, fingers itching for his magnifying lens.

John still favoured the military cut that he'd had when they'd first met. There had been a brief flirt with longer hair but he continued to return to the style over the years. Usually when he was in a situation he was unsure about or felt nervous with. He'd had his hair cut the day after Sherlock had admitted Moriarty's hold over him on the rooftop. That suggested that John had been under the impression the feelings he had wouldn't manifest through his anger with Sherlock and then become fearful once that anger vanished.

The lack of sleep was obvious. Dark circles, washed out cheeks and red eyes. John was struggling to sleep, likely from the events recently. There were more lines around his eyes now, crows feet that suited him in some ways. It was easy to imagine them crinkling up in amusement. But the frown lines in his forehead had crept back throughout the months...years of stress.

Sherlock pressed a finger carefully onto John's forehead, frowning at the depth of the line. If it took his fancy he could imagine the line to be like the rings of a tree, denoting age and life from just a single different band.

John didn't have smooth skin. It was too weathered from the dessert and his life. But the texture of it was fascinating. The skin was a mix of rough and soft, just like the man it encased.

And there was the nose. Sherlock allowed himself to trace down the slope of it, marvelling at how straight it was and the slight hook that gave it that distinctive shape.

The cheeks were minutes away from being gaunt and Sherlock hated that. It seemed to stop the frequency of John's mouth from smiling and his eyes wrinkling in delight. He needed to regain the weight that he'd lost. He'd almost lost the dimples and the mouth that he was so used to curling up around him was now curling down.

The mouth. Sherlock considered it, remembered what it had felt like to brush against it, even in the most chaste of touches. The easy acceptance of his own reaction had surprised him when he'd thought about it after the event.

Why had he never considered the possibility of John before last night?

Storing that question away again, Sherlock moved on. Whatever data he could gain from tracing the mouth would yield him no more information that yesterday's almost kiss had. He would not waste the time.

John was shorter than the average male. Not by much and there times it was strangely unnoticeable. The army had provided him with posture and stance which counted for something in a city where so many hunched and curled their backs. Strong shoulders and neck then, despite the injury that Sherlock had never really had an opportunity to really study. A few glimpses that he hadn't been interested in and had barely committed to memory.

That would change now.

John's hands were capable. Strong and steady. They were recovering from the toil of bar work but were still calloused from the army and retained the silky smooth burn scars from the heat of the rifles. Such harsh hands that could almost scrape if you brushed the skin the wrong way.

But they were careful hands. Sherlock had witnessed him as a doctor, had been an unwilling patient enough times, to know that John was very able. That the hands that looked so rough could so easily complete intricate work and provide comfort.

Something in Sherlock stirred at the idea of those hands.

Interesting.

Delving under the blanket would be going too far.

Reluctantly, he returned his questing finger to John's face. Would the shell of his ear be sensitive? John's hearing was brilliant as was his vision. Would his eyes lose focus or sharpen? Would he hitch his breath or go silent? What would it take to unravel the man who was always so calm under pressure?

Unbidden, his hand rested gently upon the top of John's head as the man frowned in his sleep. John's hair, for it's shortness, was surprisingly soft. It was frustrating that he couldn't get a proper grasp on it before the strands slipped from his fingers. Perhaps he should encourage John to grow it out.

A sudden, unexpected image of Sherlock's own fingers gripping John's hair and pulling him down hit him like a train and to his dim astonishment his hands started to react.

Stunned he withdrew his hands and backed away, staring down at the hand that had been stroking John's hair.

Apparently he had adjusted to that aspect then. It was akin to a case when suddenly everything slotted into place and the buried clues became crystal clear. So clear that it seemed absurd he hadn't seen it before.

The impediments remained. Sherlock leaned against the arm of the chair as he watched John sleep. At no point in his thoughts last night had Sherlock ever been uninterested in the idea.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

And, as he watched John, he started to wonder if perhaps it was worth examining the obstructions and experimenting with the parameters.

* * *

><p>The child...Ava. That was the biggest obstacle. The idea of voluntarily spending a few hours with her filled him with trepidation and a sudden desire to stage a power-cut so that no audio or visual entertainment could be used within his range.<p>

But that would make the experiment moot.

It started off as a small thing. The child...Ava, (calling her by her name might help matters) often invaded the living room when she came home. It was easy enough to ensure she was engaged in a task he could bear to endure. He'd badly hidden the puzzle under the coffee table, ensuring it was the right sort for a child and was relieved to note that she had snooped and found it when he came in.

John didn't even look at him, but sat in the kitchen with a book.

Steeling himself, Sherlock went to the...went to Ava.

Wide blue eyes regarded him curiously and a tiny hand hovered over the puzzle, clumsily gripping a puzzle piece as she chewed on her lip thoughtfully.

Not wanting to enter into yet another staring competition but not wanting to give-in either, Sherlock allowed himself to break her gaze as he sat himself down on the floor next to her, determined to make it seem as if he had a reason for not winning that round.

"I started it," Ava informed him, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously as if he were about to take the puzzle from her.

"Where does that bit go?" he asked, ignoring the statement.

Distracted, she looked away from him, leaning onto the puzzle to try and force the piece into a slot it clearly didn't belong in.

Frustrated, Sherlock knelt up looking at the puzzle and huffing loudly. Ava paused in what she was doing to glance at him.

It wouldn't be good to tell her to use her bloody brain. Instead he clucked a disproving tongue against the roof of his mouth and tapped the puzzle piece with his little finger.

"Look at the picture. The colours."

Still regarding him warily, she glanced down and tilted her head around the puzzle piece rather than move it in her hands.

"It's got green on it." she said finally.

"And?" Good god this could take forever.

Ava looked slightly disappointed and scrutinised it again, harder.

"And...are those bits wing bits?" she asked suddenly, twisting the piece and flapping it at Sherlock. It was thankful that he'd taken a proper look at the damned thing during his first glance.

"Yes."

"So it doesn't go there," she announced, as if she were the first to think of it.

"No."

Then she leaned back, almost pulling the bottom of the puzzle with her as she did. She'd managed all the edges on her own, quicker than he'd estimated she would.

And this time, instead of just plonking the piece down, she studied. She would look between the puzzle piece, the puzzle, and the image on the box.

"It can't go anywhere yet," she sulked, shoulders dropping and eyes turning up to his. "Can it?"

Sherlock leaned forward a little, checking the puzzle again. "You need more of the wings." he said after a moment.

Ava eyed the box reluctantly and then huffed. "Are you going to make me turn over all the pieces like daddy does so I can see the coloured bits?"

That sounded exceedingly dull, if practical. "It will fit in eventually," he plucked a piece from the box and handed it to her. "Try this one."

It was clear that Ava was tempted to just try her previous approach of jamming the pieces together but, at a glance in his direction, she tipped her nose and made a rather dramatic point of examining the piece in her hand and the puzzle on the table.

She got it right first time.

Shifting his position Sherlock passed her the next one, watching her carefully to see if she would manage to be as accurate. This time she managed it on the second attempt.

He'd intended to walk away after five minutes, to slowly work up to spending large amounts of time with her. But there was always another puzzle piece and there was a greater speed to her actions. A speed that he had helped create. And, as she got used to the method, she lost the dramatics and just started to observe the pieces properly.

She had John's focused expression too. And his way of tilting his head when he was considering something.

At the thought of John, Sherlock turned.

The book had been long abandoned and was sitting on the table. John was stood by the wall, closer than Sherlock had imagined he would be.

For an instant, they stared at each other and the sheer longing in John's face caught at something in Sherlock's chest.

Then John, as abruptly as he had two nights ago, turned away and headed for the kitchen.

It would have been easy for Sherlock to have followed him, or to even walk to his own room and consider this attempt. But a little exhale caught his attention.

Ava was staring at the puzzle, her shoulders slumped.

Sherlock glanced at the kitchen to see almost the exact same posture written onto John as the man started peeling something.

Tearing his eyes away, Sherlock dug into the box and handed her the next piece. The child's startled surprise made him look away and study the puzzle intently.

And, when they finished putting all the pieces together, he received a shy little smile before Ava bounded off at John's call to wash her hands.

That had been...bearable.

* * *

><p>The next attempt occurred quite by accident. Mrs Hudson was meant to pick Ava up from school but ended up caught on the other side of London when she visited a friend.<p>

"I can do it," Sherlock said for what felt like the hundredth time.

John's reluctance was palpable, even down the phone line. "I'll leave now and-"

"I can do it," This was getting beyond a joke. "Or do you think me incapable of putting a five year old into a taxi and remembering where I live."

John made some frustrated sound, "I have no idea what you're up to with this but-"

"Take advantage of it," Sherlock suggested, not really wanting to discuss the why at the moment. "I can assure you this offer won't be made when I have a case on."

Seconds ticked by as John hovered in indecision.

"Call it..." Sherlock veered away from the word he had been about to use, "recompense for the other night."

A bitter laugh echoed in his ear, "Are you dying or something?"

"I...went too far." Sherlock twisted the knife through his fingers and then along the wood of the mantelpiece in frustration.

"So...what, you owe me?" It was impossible without seeing John's face to tell what he thought of that.

_I O U_

Shuddering Sherlock pressed the tip into the wood and watched as the soft material gave way to the steel. "Do you want me to pick her up or not?"

John sighed and seemed to think it over. "You'll remember to get her out of the taxi when you get home?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

* * *

><p>John had informed him that he'd phoned the school and told them that Sherlock would be picking Ava up. Apparently they wouldn't let her go unless they recognised the person waiting for the child.<p>

The parents waiting at the side door where the younger children came out watched him suspiciously. Snotty nosed infants wailed and played in the shrubs while waiting.

The youngest class came out first. They were tiny little things who looked even smaller in their school uniform. It was almost as if they were dressed for a play.

He almost didn't spot Ava. He was looking for a much taller child when she suddenly appeared beside him. Mrs Hudson had obviously been in charge this morning because her two plaits were neat, even and tidy for once.

She was so little.

As if to double check,Sherlock looked over at the other students that were leaving. Children that all seemed so much older. Looking back at Ava,she seemed little more than a toddler.

"You don't pick me up from school." she announced haughtily at him, clearly deciding she'd had enough of being ignored.

Sherlock glanced at all the other children from her year group who were wrapping themselves around their parent's legs or racing off to get into mischief or chewing on their sleeves.

Suddenly, the little girl in front of him didn't seem such a bad deal.

The last of the students were released from their classroom and the teacher made his way out to a parent who was trying to flag him down.

Ava hadn't come out of that door. He'd watched.

The teacher had let her leave, knowing that she was being picked up by a strange man and hadn't checked with her that Sherlock was the right person to release her to.

A small oversight, but one against the school's policy.

The teacher hadn't cared.

* * *

><p>Children were apparently strangely perceptive. Ava had noted that the teacher, Mr Hepper, was colder to children who didn't wear the school coat but had apparently not made the leap that it was a sign that he was a snob who disliked it when students couldn't afford the school coat. She'd noted that Mr Hepper liked students that gave him the right answer without stopping to consider that he only liked answers he agreed with. Of course any child John raised was going to be clever, that was barely worth debating.<p>

Yet, while she was unable to piece those obvious facts together, she'd stumbled, somehow on the biggest reason.

Mr Hepper hated John.

And Ava somehow had decided that John didn't need to know that because it would have make things complicated when it was just the two of them.

Which raised the question how Mr Hepper could hate John without John being aware of it.

When they got back he took the thin, fraying bag that Ava was carrying and started to pull the books and papers out.

"What are you doing?" Ava asked, frowning at the papers.

"Why does you teacher dislike your father?" Sherlock asked as he started to flick through her book, noting the utter lack of comments and marking.

He needed to compare it to another student's books.

Ava shrugged again in a way that Sherlock found maddening. "Can I have some milk?"

Sherlock paused in his flipping. "If there's any in the fridge," he said, trying to work out when John last went to the shops.

Ava looked over at the kitchen and then back at Sherlock. "I can't reach it."

"Then wait." Though he had no real expectation to find anything useful to this mystery. "Have you ever seen your father and this Mr Hepper together?"

Ava shook her head and sat on the edge of the sofa, her eyes wandering over the exercise books.

"Then why do you think Mr Hepper dislikes John?"

The shoulders started to move as if to shrug again, but she must have caught his look because they fell quickly.

"He says things." she said finally. "But you won't tell Daddy, will you?" she added mistrustfully.

"What sort of things?" Sherlock asked, accepting that the bag was a dead end for now. He should have picked another one up as they left.

"You didn't promise." Ava tilted her chin in a way that Sherlock was starting to find equally annoying and amusing.

"Does he mark the books often?" Sherlock asked, avoiding that line of questioning for now.

"Yes." Ava's lip jutted out in a sulk, "Carla Fray always gets a sticker."

"Have you?" Sherlock was relatively sure of the answer.

Ava stared at him, looking suddenly worried. "No," she admitted, "My work's not that good." she shrugged.

He needed another book bag.

* * *

><p>He stole one the following day as Ava was coming out and John was picking her up. It was easy, though probably because no-one would ever think to guard a child's school bag against theft.<p>

But he paused, watching Ava run over to John with obvious delight. John scooped her up easily and settled her against him, the pair chatting as they walked. With a practised move John managed to get both gloves and a scarf onto Ava, laughing at something she said.

They looked happy. Unified. Complete.

Would he fit if he walked over there? Would John lose the happiness in his eyes or would it increase? There was a wariness to him now when around Sherlock and a narrowed gaze that seemed to be waiting for something. They hadn't spoken about that night in any detail yet John seemed to be on edge around Sherlock.

Certainly John wasn't fighting for anything to happen between them. In fact, despite being the one with the feelings, John seemed determined to utterly ignore the situation.

It was impossible to work out John's reasonings. Though John could be inordinately slow when it came to piecing things together at times, he was surprisingly fast as deducing when Sherlock was hunting for information. It was highly difficult to get anything from John without him realising and shutting down.

It was unlikely that John would remain unaware for long. In fact, if the phone conversation the previous day was any indicator, John was already suspicious.

Perhaps tonight would be a good time to attempt the honest approach.

Walking until he was far enough away from the school to open the bag without looking like a lunatic.

A beautifully marked book with stickers. Long comments filled with praise and suggestions.

Sherlock took the book he'd liberated from Ava's bag and compared them.

Hers was better.

Far better.

* * *

><p>Satisfied that he'd made headway in the mystery surrounding John and the teacher, Sherlock opened the attachment that Lestrade had sent and snorted at the message that Sherlock was not to come to the office at the moment because the chief was in.<p>

When he looked up from the screen Ava was standing opposite him. The tiny five year old's cheeks were rosy from her bath, her hair still slightly damp and the purple fuzzy dressing gown looked rather cosy. Her bare feet were red with cold and she kept shifting to stand one foot on top of the other to keep them warm.

"Yes?" he asked, sure that John had been upstairs with her.

She studied him. It unnerved him when she looked at him like that; her face still too young to read accurately. She stepped forward, peering as if to see what was on the screen. Before she got the right angle he quickly clicked onto an empty tab, relatively sure that John would take issue with the child seeing the hacked up body parts.

But she only glanced at the screen as if it were obligatory to glance at everything she encountered.

"Night, night," she said and leaned her head forward.

A wet kiss press pressed against his cheek. The tiny body warm and smelling like John's shampoo and strawberry bubblegum from her bubble-bath foam, but surprisingly sturdy and tangible.

There was an insane urge to hug her close that he easily resisted and she pulled away.

And then widened her eyes at him expectantly.

"Good night," he managed, almost certain that was what she expected.

She waited.

Then, clearly seeing that he wasn't going to do anything else, she rolled her eyes and sighed in a very dramatic way.

"You're supposed to tell me to sleep well. Otherwise you're giving me nightmares."

"That's not how it works," Sherlock replied on automatic.

That chin went up and he readied himself for some ridiculous notion that some idiot had thought was comforting to children.

"I know, but it's good manners and I don't want you to get told off." Ava replied folding her arms and tilting her head.

How could the child look so utterly like John?

"Told off?" he asked.

"Well...you're not a Daddy so someone must be able to tell you off,"

Sherlock stared at her.

"Ava," John stood in the doorway looking amused. "Bedtime, leave Sherlock alone,"

Ava beamed suddenly over at Sherlock and then danced off upstairs. Three second later she ran back to John.

"I want a story,"

John nodded, "I'll be up in a minute. Pick one for us to read."

The child ran off again.

"I don't think I've ever seen you look more terrified." John commented calmly.

Sherlock smirked as he closed the tab to go back to the email, "You do realise that you're testing me?" he asked, noting the right to left angle of the slashed throat. "In what I assume is an attempt to gauge whether I'm capable of this."

A glance over at John showed the man's mouth had gaped open in disbelief. Sherlock watched, almost amused as John struggled to regain his composure.

"What...what gave you that idea?" John asked after a moment of staring.

Sherlock turned back to the case and smiled at the screen, "Because it's what I'm doing." He said starting to type a scathing reply.

"What you're doing?" John parroted sounding as if he'd never heard the words before. "Wait...I..." He seemed utterly lost.

Sherlock's fingers flew over the keys as he stared at the screen, determined not to give John his attention while the man stuttered in bewilderment. "It is rather a lot to risk if I am not able to do it properly."

The one and only glance he risked up showed John staring at him, as if he'd been turned to stone. So Sherlock continued on with the emails from Scotland Yard.

"Do it properly?" John asked hoarsely.

"Mmm."

John just pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock-" he started, sounding as if he were about to launch into a list of rather predictable reasons why his method was a bad idea.

"Why does her teacher hate you?" Sherlock asked as he typed, deciding to cut over the protestations. Really there was no point entering into those until he'd determined whether he could give the relationship the effort it would demand.

"What?" John sounded blind-sided. "Teacher?"

"Ava's teacher, Mr Hepper." Sherlock pressed the send button.

"Mr Hepper isn't Ava's teacher," John replied firmly, "Don't change the subject."

"He is." Sherlock shut down the browser and narrowed his eyes at John. "One of the teachers left due to illness, so they shuffled the staff about."

John blinked.

"Regardless, whether he's her teacher or not, you're not arguing against it. The two of you have some history?"

John turned to glance up the stairs and then back at Sherlock, "She didn't say anything,"

"Because even she knows the pair of you don't get on."

John reached out for the back of the chair and took deep breaths. His arms were rigid with tension and his head ducked down as he steadied himself.

The fingers on the chair were white with effort. The whole posture screamed for someone to relax John, to stand him up and soothe his temper.

Gentle touches and soft words were not what Sherlock was known for.

Next experiment, he decided.

"Put her to bed, John." he said, trying to make it sound like a suggestion. "We'll talk after. You can rage then if you need to."

* * *

><p>More John and Sherlock interactions next chapter :)<p> 


	7. Part 1: Chapter Six

A/N

Right, so thanks to everyone who has reveiwed, alerted and favourited. It's lovely to hear from you all! Just to warn you all that the rating will be coming up with the next chapter. I'm sure many of you can guess why! Also I'm struggling to work out what genre to put this fic into. Any thoughts? It's currently in General/Family and was previously in Angst/General.

And, just as a sidenote, I wrote chapter 12 of "Paved with Love" today and may have felt like a compleletly terrible person. (I'm so close to finishing the fic it's unreal.) I did have a debate with myself about trying to catch this fic up with "Paved with Love" but I figure in many ways Ava's story is the "what" part and Sherlock's is the "how and the why".

So hope you enjoy and thanks to proudtobeatheatrekids betaing skills!

* * *

><p><strong>November 25th<strong>

John took the drink without a word. But, as Sherlock had expected, resisted the urge to knock it back down his throat. Instead, he sat down and twisted the glass in his hand, staring at it for the longest time.

Sherlock said nothing, watching as the light caught the amber liquid and cast the warm light in ribbons onto John's face. He pushed the urge that it raised aside and waited.

"You saw something, at the school." John said, taking a sip finally and wincing at the taste.

"He allowed her out of another door. You had told the school a stranger would be picking her up today. This man made no attempt to check who I was or even if Ava had found someone to collect her."

John smiled bitterly, clearly pained at the idea, and took another sip. A much deeper and longer one.

"He doesn't mark her books, yet marks the others."

John's head shot up at that and he stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "How would you know that?"

"It is not hard to liberate one of those bags." Sherlock said haughtily. "Regardless," he added when John looked torn between disapproval and amusement, "The girl now thinks she is a low achiever."

John settled back, lost in thought; head tipped up slightly as his mind worked.

The top button of his shirt was done up. It always was, likely a habit that was left over from the military and one he was unlikely to ever deviate from. It closed the shirt tightly around his throat, hiding the skin of his collar bone from sight.

And his shaving was precise, as always. There would be none of that designer stubble or rough beard for the former soldier. How long would it take for the hair to grow through and turn a touch into a scrape?

Would John willingly tilt his head back or would he have to be persuaded?

As if sensing his thoughts John levelled his head down and met Sherlock, stare for stare.

"Why do you care?"

Almost amused at the absurdity of the question, Sherlock sat forward, elbows on each arm of the chair and linking his fingers. "That is neither the problem nor the issue at the moment."

John scrubbed a hand over his eyes, "I'm tired, Sherlock." he said, sounding it. "Can we not play games?"

"Tell me," Sherlock tightened his fingers on each other as he braced himself. "And I'll tell you."

John looked suspicious, as if there was some catch to the offer that he hadn't seen yet. But he was tempted.

And a smug look appeared.

"Fine." John sat up, back straight and a light suddenly gleaming from his eyes. "It's hardly a secret."

Intrigued, Sherlock raised an enquiring eyebrow, drinking in the sight of John in battle mode.

"He's the brother of the man that Harry killed." John said calmly, so calmly that his tone was almost taunting. "He was the one who found him and the wife. Harry had thought she was dead as well. As it was she was unconscious."

"Why would you-"

"Because I wasn't thinking straight." John snapped. "I needed to get Ava into a school that was close by to the new flat, my sister was dead and the last thing I was going to do was check down the staff names. By the time I realised, it was too late. I didn't realise they'd swapped the classes around." John sounded annoyed at the idea.

Sherlock rested his chin on his linked fingers. "You mentioned the wife?"

"Yes." John waited, clearly expecting Sherlock to work it out on his own.

The unmarried teacher's sister in-law. He'd been uninterested in the mother that had been flirting with him and had seemed tired. Frustrated, as if eager to be somewhere else, but not to a woman's house. There had been a card in his pocket that he'd been fiddling with...an ID card of some description.

"What were the wife's injuries?"

John glared into his glass, mouth pressed together. "Paralysed. If Harry had called the ambulance she may have recovered to some extent." He swallowed tightly and then finally knocked back the drink.

"It was why she was prosecuted."

John shook his head, "It made it easier for her to be sent down."

"You think it was Moriarty?" There were at least seven ways to dissuade John of that rather accurate deduction.

But John stared at him and shook his head, "I don't _think _anything," he said calmly. Shifting suddenly, he dragged a small card out of his back pocket and tossed it in Sherlock's direction.

Catching it Sherlock frowned at the sympathy card. It looked as if it had been scrunched up in a fit of anger at some point. And he'd seen the make before...

Turning it over he saw St Bart's logo on the back. One of the cards the hospital made to raise charity.

Inside was a simple note.

_Such a shame about your sister. I hope her daughter doesn't meet the same fate. Do take __care Johnny – you almost ruined my project. I'd hate to almost ruin your life in response._  
><em>Jim<em>

Harry had died long before Moriarty had known Sherlock was alive.

It was just petty revenge.

"I don't know how he did it," John said quietly. "God help me but I don't want to know."

"John-"

"He talked her into a noose and you off a building." John's voice almost wavered. "I don't..." he let out a breath to collect himself. "I'm only showing you the card so you don't treat me like an idiot." John stared at the bottle on the table. "He had no interest in her, bar her connection to me."

There was no denying that.

"He's is in love with the wife. Ava's teacher," Sherlock clarified when John didn't look up. "He won't forgive what happened."

John shook his head, "He wouldn't believe what happened. Couldn't believe his brother would hurt his wife."

"Ahh." Sherlock took a deep breath. "So he is unlikely to be dissuaded."

John nodded distractedly and continued to shift the glass in his hand, seemingly captivated by it.

Disliking where John's thoughts were going, Sherlock leaned as far as he could and caught the hand that was twisting. He took the glass and allowed their fingers to brush, returning John's attention.

Flushing slightly, John pulled his hand back, pressing back into the chair as if Sherlock were about to burn him.

"You answered my question." Sherlock placed the glass onto the table carefully.

"I don't need to know." John said swallowing tightly.

"This is hardly the time to start being a coward." Sherlock settled back, returning the previous distance to John.

The movement and the words worked in the way he had intended. Irritation bloomed in John's cheeks and he felt confident enough to own his space again. "Ok." John's voice was clipped with anger, "Why are you doing this?"

"I am deciding what I can offer." Sherlock placed his hands on the arm rests again, firmly and palms flat. "What I am prepared to offer."

"This isn't a sodding auction." John snapped. "And would you just answer the question like a normal person?"

"Fine." Sherlock snapped back. "I'm hardly perfect John; in fact I've had no end of people point out my flaws this month. I rarely trust anyone's judgement but my own, I cannot stand being accountable to people's expectations, and I will do anything if I think the ends justify the means. I am rude, obsessive, and compulsive. I am a former addict, a former criminal and I have spent three years engaging in a number of illegal activities, the least of which was faking my own death."

John folded his arms, "I could add a great deal more to that," he snipped.

"I'm sure you could." Sherlock agreed, fighting his own irritation. "Just as I am aware that any relationship we had would only work if I compromised."

John's mouth opened and closed a few times. "I...I wasn't aware that was in your vocabulary." John stammered.

"It isn't usually." Sherlock allowed the words to flicker out with precision so there could be no mistaking just how much he was willing to try.

And John's expression softened with surprise, his eyes searching frantically for something.

"I don't trust you."

It hurt, but it wasn't unexpected.

"And there is no point me attempting to earn that unless I know what I want do with it."

A myriad of emotions worked across John's face at that declaration until something like fond exasperation won.

"Can I just check I have this right? You're announcing your intention to consider attempting to win my trust so we can discuss having a relationship?"

It sounded vaguely ridiculous when John put it like that. Peeved, Sherlock glared at John.

"Something like that."

John nodded to himself looking at a corner of the carpet, mouth twisted in wry amusement. Then he stood and walked over to Sherlock, stopping in front of his chair.

How had he never been this aware of John before? Never felt how warm he was even without touching him or seen how alcohol turned his lips a rather enticing shade.

John bent down until they were level and it was only then that Sherlock saw the intention.

John wanted to prove that this wasn't going to happen. That Sherlock was messing around with him or would change his mind.

"You called me a coward." John said, his chin tilting in that damnable way that Ava's did

There was only one way to deal with this sheer challenge.

"I'm still collecting data," Sherlock warned.

"That's not an apology," John said, so very close.

"You haven't proved me wrong yet," Sherlock replied, recording the way John's jaw flickered in anticipation.

It was always useful to know the tells.

But there was still a hesitation, as if John was waiting for Sherlock to pull back at the last minute.

So Sherlock tipped his head and craned his neck.

John's lips were still faintly wet from the brandy that Sherlock had deigned to share with him; a far more palatable taste than the beer he usually drank. He could feel John's shock from the way that the man sucked his breath in suddenly. Sherlock chased the air through the soft lips and into the warm mouth and waiting tongue.

He was at the wrong angle to press on and control the kiss; the strain of keeping his neck up and body tilted in the correct way took quite a bit of effort which made it difficult to then extend into the kiss and John was too shocked to really reciprocate. Besides, it was hardly the time to push it past anything but a taste.

A promise.

With a sweetness that surprised him, he pulled back a little, capturing John's lips again in short nipping kisses that made John respond cautiously. One of John's hands brushed one of Sherlock's as it still rested, palms down, on the arm of the chair.

Sherlock allowed himself to loop one finger over one of John's with a calming stroke.

The touch made John yank back, taking the warmth and friction with him and making Sherlock want to stand and chase it.

It took some control to just sit.

John had turned away, making it impossible to tell what was going on in his head.

"You're actually doing this?" John asked sounding shaken.

"If I can." It wouldn't do to give him false promises.

"You shouldn't." John whispered, shaking his head.

Why?

But it wasn't the time to ask. There was little point in arguing against John when he didn't know what he wanted to gain from it.

So he said nothing.

"I'm going to bed." John said still not turning. "I...thank you, for telling me about Ava's teacher."

There was no point nodding if John wasn't looking.

Still, it didn't feel right to let the conversation end in this way.

"John?"

John paused at the door to the stairs and turned his head to the side, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"Good?"

John smiled before he could catch the reaction, shook his head and left.

* * *

><p><strong>November 28th<strong>

"I'm going to a new school," Ava announced three days later.

The pair had returned from the tour that Mycroft had arranged. It had been torturous, asking his brother for yet another favour and the look on Mycroft's face had almost made Sherlock wish he could breathe words back in as easily as air.

But the pleasantly surprised glow on John's eyes had gone some way to making it feel almost worth it.

"You liked it, then?" Sherlock found himself asking, even though the question was a foolish one. At the end of the day, a primary school was a primary school. And Mycroft was snobbish enough that he wouldn't allow anyone with even a vague connection to him go anywhere mediocre.

Ava nodded emphatically, "My new teacher has pretty hair."

Behind her, John glanced over with an amused smile and seemed to wait for the inevitable huff.

But today was a new experiment.

"Why was it pretty?" Sherlock asked, holding back an amused snort when John's mouth gaped slightly.

"Because it looks like the coffee that Daddy drinks and is very straight." Ava announced, glaring at a strand of fair, curling hair that was in her face.

There wasn't much he could do with that.

"Did you see any lessons?" he asked.

Ava nodded, "They were talking about the electrics." She smiled shyly, "I answered a question."

"What was the question?" Three more questions. He could manage that.

"That the TV runs on electric." Ava said and then frowned, "But the teacher wouldn't tell me how."

"How?" he queried. Two more.

Ava turned to John, as if seeking his permission. John made no motion but seemed to have somehow answered her because she turned back.

"I don't understand how electricity makes pictures. When it came out the socket that time that Daddy was changing the plugs it was a blue spark. How does it make all the colours and the pictures and the noise?"

It was…an interesting question.

"What did your teacher say?"

"That it was a bit too complicated." Ava scowled fiercely at the idea. "I don't think he knew."

"Probably not," Sherlock agreed. He sat up and looked down at the little girl whose hair was wildly trying to escape her ponytail.

Then he eyed the television.

"No," John's voice cut in sharply. "Absolutely not."

"But-"

"You are not taking the television apart," John had folded his arms in a reminiscent pose of when he would refuse to let Sherlock use their mugs for storing arsenic.

"You can take the television apart?" Ava rounded on Sherlock, wide-eyed with awe.

"Apparently not," Sherlock frowned, unsure if John's protestations were due to his concern of their television or the small child that was looking deeply disappointed. "Why did you think the teacher didn't know the answer?"

There. He's asked his set amount of questions.

"Because he got shifty, like this," Ava gave a rather dramatic rendition of someone looking around hopelessly. "And he went all red like Joshua did when the Mr Hepp caught him nicking sweets."

That was…actually a rather good explanation for a small child. Certainly better than Anderson's _he looks guilty _justification that he'd provided the first time he and Sherlock had worked together.

"Did he do anything else?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward with interest.

"He talked really quickly, like he wanted to get it over with." Ava twisted her lips between the gap from a lost front tooth. "But I talk quick when I have to talk to a lot of people so maybe he was just a bit scared."

Behind her John let out an amused snort, "You could talk the hind legs off a donkey and still not stop," he muttered, flicking through some forms as he sat himself at the table.

"Is that possible?" Ava asked Sherlock.

"No."

"Then why do people say it?" Ava planted herself in John's chair and peered at him as she wriggled herself into a curled position on the seat.

And somehow, in between his explanation of the evolution of sayings and Ava's question about what fingernails were made of, Sherlock forgot that he was meant to be bored.

* * *

><p><strong>November 29th<strong>

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked as John shrugged on his coat.

"Milk and bread." John said, tucking his wallet into his back pocket.

"We have those." Sherlock let the vial of the strange substance found at the crime scene catch the slither of light that was coming through the window.

"We're running out of them," John corrected.

"Are we?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John pause and stare at him. Then with very deliberate movements, John walked over to the fridge, opened it, closed it, went to the cupboard and repeated.

Then walked back until he was standing in front of where Sherlock sat.

Taking his time, Sherlock looked up from the vial and into John's face. There was the strangest expression on John's face, as if he'd just seen a clue but wasn't sure what it implied.

"How did they get here?"

Privately, Sherlock objected to the scolding tone that was being used but it would invalidate the latest experiment if he chose to make an issue of it. Instead he faked ignorance.

"How did what get here?"

"You know what I'm talking about Sherlock." John took a deep breath as his lips tightened in annoyance. "How did the bread and milk miraculously make their way into the flat?"

"In a shopping bag."

"You…you bought it?"

"That is usually the way one acquires these things." Sherlock examined the vial again, pretending to focus on it when in fact he'd gleaned all he needed to know about ten minutes ago.

"You went to the shops?"

And a hideous experience it had been too.

"Yes."

"Oh god," John stared at the ceiling as if for help, "This is another data gathering thing isn't it?"

Amused, Sherlock dropped the hand that was holding the vial and gave John his full attention. John, who was scrubbing his forehead with his fingers as if warding off a migraine.

"Green top not red," John said after a moment, allowing his hands to fall.

"What?" Sherlock blinked, taken-aback. He had expected some lecture or protest, not some bizarre code.

"The milk." John clarified, "Get the green top next time, not the red."

Next time?

The…reluctance must have shown on his face because John smirked at him, "Well, now I know you're capable of surviving a trip to Tesco's, and more importantly that the shop can survive a trip from you, I feel a lot less willing to pop out to be your shopper every other day." And with that John flashed him an evil smile.

Damn.

* * *

><p><strong>November 30th<strong>

"You brought home a baby owl?"

"She needed it for her English work. Really John, I would have thought you would have prioritised Ava's learning."

"I…what? How does that even work?"

"She didn't know what one looked like and how it moved."

"Use YouTube next time."

* * *

><p><strong>December 1st<strong>

"Molly has a liver for you," John announced as Sherlock came in, dripping from the rain.

It was enough to perk him up and pause on the threshold when previously he'd only wanted nothing more than to have a hot shower.

"Really?"

"She says you have to pick it up tonight though. The hospital wants to destroy it due to the disease."

Sherlock was starting to hate that nonchalantly calm tone. It usually meant that John thought he was about to win a point in this strange game they were now playing with each other. The one where Sherlock attempted to experiment how far he could compromise while John made it as hard as possible to do so,

"Contagious?" he asked, taking a step into the warm living room.

John nodded thoughtfully.

Sherlock glanced at the tumbled trainers in the corner of the room with their pink daisies on the side.

Moriarty could take tips from John.

Pointedly, determined to win this battle, Sherlock took out his phone and dialled Molly.

"John told you then?" she asked as she picked up. "What time do you want-"

It was painful to make his lips shape the words needed. "I won't be able to collect it."

There was a long pause on the other side of the phone.

"But you were looking for-"

"I know," Sherlock gritted out, "I cannot take it with me."

"Oh…"Molly sounded utterly bewildered. "Ok, I…um…are you alright?"

Across from him John seemed to have forgotten how to breathe; he sat frozen, the only thing about him that looked alive was his panicked eyes.

The sight strangely relaxed Sherlock and he caught John's gaze, allowing a small smile to tug at his lips.

"I'm fine," he replied, suddenly meaning it. "I'm compromising."

John turned sheet white and Sherlock turned away to ask Molly what she had that he could study inside Bart's and allowing John some privacy.

* * *

><p><strong>December 2nd<strong>

Mrs Hudson stood with her arms folded over her chest, glaring at him in that vaguely scolding manner that usually made him shift and think twice about what he was doing.

But, as he wasn't actually planning anything, Sherlock was relatively sure she couldn't pick fault with him.

Still,the posture and the expression indicated he was about to be rebuked in some fashion.

"Yes?" he asked, achieving the perfect pitch of disinterested politeness.

"Going out?"

Sherlock allowed his eyes to flicker down to his arm, encased as it was in his coat.

"Yes."

"How long will you be?" Mrs Hudson asked, sounding as if she knew the answer. And really, Sherlock was a grown man. He hadn't faced an interrogation over his comings and goings since he'd been thrown out of university.

"Why do you ask?" he stepped forward, still trying to maintain his polite air.

"You promised John you'd pick up Ava."

"Yes." Sherlock swept his eyes over her and saw the nerves, the worry, and the uncomfortable air. "I am going now."

And then the surprise, which she quickly tried to cover to spare his feelings, "It's very early to be leaving," she added, the squared shoulders dropping a little in relief.

"I have other things to collect, not just John's things."

Mrs Hudson scowled at him, "She is not a toy Sherlock."

"I am aware of that-"

"She does not exist just to distract you with questions in between cases."

"That is not why I am doing this," Sherlock huffed. And when Mrs Hudson gave him a disappointed, disbelieving look he felt his irritation start to bubble. "It's a test."

"A test?" She didn't look impressed or relieved by that.

"I am attempting to make a decision about John." It was hateful having to stand in one's own hallway and be interrogated like an errant teen faced with the first prospective and overly protective in-laws.

Mrs Hudson's lips firmed. "Do not mess him around Sherlock. Not again."

"And that is why I am conducting these experiments." Sherlock hissed, losing his patience. "Whatever my thoughts on the matter, John comes with Ava, hence the tests."

The hazel eyes widened fractionally and Sherlock inwardly winced, bracing himself for the cooing and delighted fussing that would inevitably occur.

But Mrs Hudson just nodded with a small, secret smile. "Your gloves are on the table where you left them yesterday."

Then she turned back into her flat.

Confused, but unwilling to admit it, Sherlock picked up the gloves and left.

* * *

><p>"Why does it smell like burnt rubber?"<p>

"I was demonstrating why we could smell it on the back from school today."

"For God's sakes, Sherlock, it stinks in here."

"That was the point…"

* * *

><p><strong>December 3rd<strong>

"Is that a baby chick?" John asked wearily as he stood in the doorway, looking both amused and tired.

Sherlock and Ava both turned to look at him from where they were on the carpet looking at the baby bird and an egg that had been cracked in a bowl.

"Daddy," Ava beamed up at him. "Did you know that the old eggs in the fridge won't turn into chickens?"

Sherlock nodded in agreement, satisfied that she'd understood what he'd said. After all it had been a rather reasonable question.

But John nodded slowly and placed his coat on the back of the chair carefully.

"Should I assume that the old eggs that caused the question are still in the fridge?" he sighed.

"Where else would they be?" Sherlock asked, eyeing up the baby chick and wondering how to get rid of it now that it had served its purpose.

John muttered something under his breath as he made his way to the kitchen.

* * *

><p><strong>December 4th<strong>

They spent what was quickly becoming a typical night in. John was on the sofa, Ava on his lap reading to him as he brushed her hair for bed. The television was muttering quietly in the background while Sherlock worked on his latest theory for his case with his microscope, cursing the electronic sensors on the labs that prevented him from borrowing a superior one from St Bart's.

When he looked up, he saw Ava waiting with her chin on the table, watching him carefully.

"Daddy said I shouldn't interrupt."

John stared at the television, but his smirk could easily be deduced from the slight raise of his ears.

"You are saying goodnight?" Sherlock asked sitting back and allowing his back to crack.

"I can wait," Ava insisted, her eyes flickering over to the clock as if to judge how long she could get away with staying up. "What are you looking at?"

"Powder." Sherlock considered her for a moment, and then inclined his head, encouraging her to come round to his side of the table. With a joyful squeak she slithered under the table and popped out his side.

Unsure why the sight of that entertained him so much, Sherlock stood and helped Ava onto his now vacant seat, pushing the chair in and standing behind her.

"Look," he said and she obediently placed her eye to the viewer. Sherlock adjusted the focus, "Tell me when it's clear."

She pulled in a startled breath when the powder became clear, the tiny particles as vivid as the wallpaper surrounding them.

"What is it?" she asked turning her head round to look at him. Sherlock was amazed she didn't break her spine, the position she'd gotten in.

"I don't know yet." He said, pushing a bottle of acid back from her reach, glad that John hadn't spotted it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John stiffen.

"It's harmless; I tested it before I brought it back." Sherlock told him.

John nodded, but stood.

"Time for bed Ava," he reiterated, coming close to scoop Ava out of the chair.

* * *

><p>It was too quiet when they left to go upstairs. John had turned the television off, wrongly assuming that Sherlock would be distracted by the noise.<p>

But even turning it on didn't help, and Sherlock ended up turning it off when some moron started trying to explain the principles of observation to an audience on a particularly idiotic chat show.

It was too empty.

Giving up on the experiment when his mind was racing like this, Sherlock snuck upstairs, avoiding the squeaky step halfway up.

"What happened next?" Ava was asking, sounding thrilled.

"Well, the detective was very clever and had noticed a clue in what the woman had said. So when the agent demanded that the detective opened the safe, he was able to do it."

"Why had she given him a clue?" Ava asked, sounding miffed at the idea. "That was a bit silly; if she didn't want him find the picture."

Sherlock could hear John shifting through the door. "They like playing games," he explained. "It was part of the fun."

"Still think it's a bit silly," Ava sulked. "Did the agents get the picture?"

"No. The detective called out a warning and ducked. There was a gun protecting the pictures and the detective and the woman used the distraction to knock out all the agents."

"What about the soldier? What did he do?" Ava demanded.

"Well he helped too." John sounded strangely evasive at the idea; which was strange because it was the truth. "But the woman was just a bit quicker that day and she stole back the picture."

Ava dragged in an awed gasp. "Quicker than the detective?"

"Yeah," Sherlock could almost hear the smile in John's voice. "The detective was fascinated. Finally he'd found someone who could match him and wasn't completely evil.

What?

That wasn't right.

Frowning now, Sherlock took a step closer to the door, examining it to see if there were some way he could study John's as he told the story without John knowing he was being watched.

Impossible. Sherlock would have to use John's voice as an indicator.

"The soldier must have been sad."

"No," John sounded more musing than upset. "Not then."

"But he was sad later?"

"Well the woman sent the detective the most precious thing she had. She sent him the pictures on a phone that were password protected-"

"Like your new laptop?"

"Yes." There was a twinge of bitterness because John must know that there was no possible way Sherlock wouldn't guess his passwords. "But the detective knew it meant she was in danger and, by the end of the night, they heard that she had vanished."

"Was the detective upset?"

"Very," There was jealousy now, just the faintest touch of it. "He wouldn't talk about it. And then one day, quite out of nowhere, the woman and the soldier bumped into each other.

"The soldier was furious. He'd hated seeing his friend in such a state and she was perfectly fine. The woman was even asking the soldier to steal from the detective."

"As if he would," Ava sniffed dismissively.

"Exactly." John agreed and then moved again.

"Can't you tell me a bit more?" Ava pleaded.

"Then there won't be anything to tell you tomorrow," John had to be smiling.

Sherlock glanced at the stairs behind him as John went about the ritual of tucking a child in for bed. He had time to get downstairs and act as if he'd never been anywhere near the bedroom.

Three minutes later John froze at the sight of Sherlock waiting on the landing.

"How long have you-"

"That was rather erroneous," Sherlock announced.

"Mmm, somehow leaving out Irene's profession, people dying and fake deaths seemed like a good idea." John pushed past and went down the stairs.

"I meant about my attitude towards the woman." Sherlock continued once he'd followed John down the stairs.

"How was it…?" John caught himself, "No, I don't care."

"That's a lie,"

John stormed over to the kettle, filling it with sharp, noisy movements. "Is spying on me part of this ludicrous experiment too?" he snarled.

Tomorrow he'd wanted to attempt to talk to Stanford and Lestrade without them firming their mouths in annoyance. He'd also planned to tidy the mantelpiece.

But somehow, watching John's tight shoulders, their importance of the last few experiments faded because the idea of not doing this filled Sherlock with more dread than the risk did.

"I've finished."

The hand placing the kettle back on the stand froze and John turned his head a little, clearly wanting to know what Sherlock meant by that but reluctant to ask.

It was tempting to walk over, to run his hands over the tight shoulders just to feel how tense John could be and to learn how to encourage him to uncoil and unravel. To discover what the nape of his neck smelled like and whether the taste matched the smell. To loosen buttons and smooth his hand over warm skin.

He could do it. John was so wired, so off balance that it would be easy. A whispered challenge to infuriate him and make John forget his reasons for holding Sherlock at arm's length, then quick forceful motions that would ensure John didn't have time to pause for thought.

_I don't trust you_

It wouldn't end well.

So Sherlock maintained the distance between them.

"What would it take?" he asked, ignoring his automatic urge to make this into a dance or a game for them to play. "For you to consider this?"

The startled breath was followed by a slow shake of the head. John placed the kettle slowly down and then gripped the edge of the work top like his life depended on it.

"Why not?" Sherlock pressed.

"You'll get bored."

"And you'll get frustrated with me." Sherlock allowed himself to appreciate the tempting position John had unwittingly placed himself in. "We'll fight and then you'll fix it with a joke."

John shook his head again. "Stop," he whispered.

_I don't trust you_

"As you wish." Sherlock turned away, "But until you provide me with a good reason, I won't stop asking."

When he got into his room, he spent the rest of the evening switching between the mystery of finger prints on the wrong side of a window for the latest case Lestrade had sent him and planning how to prove that John was utterly wrong.

* * *

><p>Taadaa! Let me know what you thought - I'm a bit aware that the closer John and Sherlock get to being together the harder it is to keep Sherlock in character so any thoughts or suggestions would be much appreciated. I think it will be fine once they're in a relationship but Sherlock doing a mature and responsible version of wooing is probably hugely out of character as it is!<p> 


	8. Part 1: Chapter Seven

Sorry about the delay - life after half term has sucked! Plus, as a trainee English teacher I was told today that my science lesson was better than my English lessons this week! Which yay- i did a good lesson but also huff, i hate science! Clearly the attitude of f* it, why not just try and muddle through works for me!

Anyhoo, **Warnings **for smut. And first attempt at proper smut - hence the rating change. You have been warned!

Ps - Paved with Love is coming. There are internet issues...but it is written/being written and is pretty close to being completed. Just pray for the internet being nice for once!

* * *

><p><strong>December 5th<strong>

It started the next morning with John's first tea of the day.

"Why not?"

John jumped and banged his cup on the side. "I'm not playing this game, Sherlock."

"I can make it into a game if you prefer," Sherlock offered. "But I thought you'd prefer the more direct approach."

John poured the kettle, as if it were the most important action in the world.

"You are married to your work." John answered after a moment's pause.

"No longer true." Sherlock countered. "Try to have a better reason next time I ask."

* * *

><p><strong>December 6th<strong>

"Why not?"

They were standing in Mrs Hudson's kitchen as she scurried round to show them the strange letter she'd received the day before.

Sherlock was already certain it was an innocent mix-up but it was the first time in years that John had willingly agreed to go on anything resembling a case with Sherlock.

"Because this is your greatest love," John replied, staring straight ahead with a steely gaze, "I'm not fighting a losing battle with your love of puzzles."

"I abandoned the puzzles for three years to keep you safe." Sherlock replied quietly as Mrs Hudson rummaged through her own pile of paperwork, and the woman had the gall to say he was untidy.

The look that John shot him was like hell itself, "You were working to dismantle Moriarty's crime syndicate. According to Mycroft ,you managed to put an effective dent in it. Do you honestly expect me to believe that wasn't you working out a puzzle."

"It was tedious." Sherlock hissed. "The first few months, even the first year was interesting. After that, no. It was dull." Taking the chance, Sherlock shifted so he could see John's reaction. "And lonely."

John moved his head in a sharp move, acknowledging the words but keeping utterly stiff, unwilling to process what had been said.

"Here it is," Mrs Hudson appeared with the letter that had been addressed to her late husband. "What do you think," she asked, sounding worried.

Moriarty would not be so subtle and Mycroft would have alerted him to any other threats. The handwriting was slanted, female and the words seemed to flow badly, as if someone had been unsure or hesitant but hadn't dared to proof read. The letter had been a catharsis of some kind.

"Genuine," He handed it back to her, "It's too poorly expressed to be a fake."

"Should I write back?" Mrs Hudson asked John.

"Why did she ask you and not me?" Sherlock asked later as they climbed the stairs.

"Reason three." John said behind him, "Sentiment isn't your thing."

Sherlock rounded on the stairs, glaring down at John who stopped himself with an annoyed sigh.

"Did you want flowers and chocolate?"

"No."

"Well then." Sherlock turned back to ascend the stairs, "I fail to see how that is relevant."

"You dislike emotions," John's argument echoed up. "You think they're messy and distracting."

"They are." Sherlock agreed, walking through the doorway.

"Then why do you want a relationship?" asked John as he followed behind.

"I believe the benefit will outweigh the cost." Sherlock sat at the table, pulling out his phone.

_Mr Hudson had an illegitimate child. Background?_

"Romantic," John muttered sarcastically.

"Honest," Sherlock said as his phone beeped.

_Manners, Sherlock._

"I believe it means more to you," Sherlock continued as he typed out a reply.

_Just send it to me._

"Honest?" John stood on the other side of the table as if it were their battlefield. "That's hardly your thing either. You more concerned with looking all mysterious and swishing that damned coat of yours."

"Have you ever asked?" Sherlock slid his phone away as it beeped in response again, unwilling to share his attention.

John drew back a little. "When we went to Baskerville, in the lab, with the sugar. Did you feel guilty at all?"

"It wasn't the sugar."

"Would you have felt guilty?" John echoed fiercely.

"No." It had been laboratory conditions and he'd been watching John the entire time. Nothing would have happened.

Sherlock would never have allowed anything to happen.

"Would you do it again now?"

"With more reluctance." Sherlock admitted, "If there was no other option available, yes."

John looked unsettled, "And Irene Adler?"

"You'll need to be more specific."

"You were fascinated." John said slowly, "I know you. I saw it in your eyes."

"She was a worthy opponent." Sherlock admitted, "And a safer option than Jim Moriarty."

"You wanted her," John leaned his hands upon the table, eye blazing. "You were tempted from the moment she walked in-"

Frustrated, Sherlock yanked at Johns hands, dragging the man's upper body across the table so their faces were almost touching.

"I am not lying." He let the words flicker out on his tongue with crystal clear precision. "And I am not some shrinking violet. If I had wanted to fuck her I would have. It probably would have made things less complicated had I done so." He let John's hands go and started in surprise when John dug his fingers into Sherlock's arm and tugged him forward as well.

The intent was clear. There was anger in those blue eyes and lust and frustration and nothing that would last past the burning fury John was feeling at being yanked down by Sherlock.

"Out of unimaginative reasons already?"

John pulled back from where he'd been about to capture and bruise Sherlock's lips, dropping his hand from Sherlock's arm as if he'd been electrocuted.

"You're just trying to screw with my head," John snarled, backing away.

"I am trying to win your trust." Sherlock was glad for the table when John slumped against the wall and started to laugh weakly.

He waited it out.

"This is never going to work." John said after a moment. "You, me, this…we'll end up killing each other by the end of the day."

"Is that another reason?" Sherlock asked after a pause.

There was a moment when he thought that John was going to tell him the real issue that he had, the real and only reason that he was putting up such a fight.

"Yeah," John sighed, "It's another reason."

"We'd be bored with it any other way," Sherlock dug his phone out of his pocket again. If John wasn't going to put effort into this then he certainly wasn't.

* * *

><p><strong>December 8th<strong>

"Why not?"

"Ava," John spread the butter on the bread without even flinching or reacting this time, as if he'd been expecting the question. "She shouldn't be viewed as an add-on."

"I cannot snap my fingers and miraculously create a relationship with her-" Sherlock muttered.

"But you can fall off a building and walk away the next day," John quipped.

"-but I see no reason why one shouldn't form." Sherlock continued staring at the scarring on the table and making a note from the width that his knife blade needed to be sharpened. "She's a lot like you."

When he looked back up John seemed softer, almost willing to listen.

"Are you going to tell me the real reason?"

John stabbed the butter and continued to spread it onto the next slice.

* * *

><p><strong>December 11th<strong>

For three days it continued, until Sherlock was amazed that John didn't scream from sheer frustration at being asked the question every time they saw each other. It was rare that Sherlock got to witness the stubborn side of John Watson.

If it hadn't been so exasperating he would have been captivated with this new facet.

"Why not?" he asked late one night.

"Why should we?" John asked, glaring at the television.

"We both want to," Wasn't that reason enough?

"We both want to throw ourselves head first into danger." John turned to look at him, "It doesn't mean it's the healthy thing to do."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the "I" key of his laptop without pressing it. "We spent two years together and five apart. Two of my best years and five of my worst." He studied the screen, unwilling to look at John. "Despite the fact that I did everything I could to forget you, you remained. You and only you." Sherlock clicked on the link to study the surrounding area of the house in his penultimate back-log of cases. "I will not accept being without you again."

It was so silent. For an age it was silent.

"No," John stood up suddenly from his thoughts, "You're not doing this."

Sherlock raised his hands from the keyboard in surrender, "Doing what?"

"This." John snarled and paced like a hungry wolf. "I will not do it again."

Curious, Sherlock put the laptop on the table, "I was unaware there had been a first time."

"Don't," John shouted, despite the fact that Ava was upstairs. "Would you just leave it alone?"

"You're scared."

John's hands clawed with fury. "I am not living through it again."

There.

Those expressive eyes were catching the light, bright and almost wet as John closed his eyes and looked anywhere but at Sherlock.

"I have no intention of dying."

"You stepped off a building because he had a gun to my head." John folded his arms and stared unblinkingly at the carpet.

"Not acting on it won't make it any less true." Sherlock said shifting forward in his seat carefully.

"You wanted to win," John begun, "The most important thing to you that day-"

"Do not presume to know what went on in my head that day," Sherlock hissed.

But John didn't look mollified by that and cracked his jaw to the side, "You won't be…"John cut himself off as Sherlock stood. "You and Moriarty will play that game until you're either old and grey or both dead from it."

For a moment Sherlock could see Jim Moriarty playing that blasted song.

Staying alive.

"I doubt it," Sherlock said, and watched John jump from his proximity.

"He destroyed you," John said, still looking down. "In so many ways."

Sherlock stepped close, his mouth by John's ear and heart starting to thump quicker in anticipation. It almost made up for the hiss in his head at what he was about to say, the wince that if anyone else heard these words he'd hunt them down and ensure they deleted them from their mind.

But the moment he'd seen the reason that John wouldn't allow this to start he'd known he'd have to swallow his pride and say something that would make him feel a little unsteady.

"Keep me safe then."

As if they'd been the words John had been waiting to hear, he twisted and pulled at Sherlock's neck until their lips met.  
><em>.<em>  
>John's hands had gripped the nape of his neck and were fisting his hair. It felt as if John was attempting to pour himself into Sherlock, and Sherlock was more than willing to accommodate that.<p>

More.

"Mrs Price says you have to be married to do that," Ava chirped from the doorway.

"Jesus," Sherlock heard John mutter before the lips yanked away. In fact,the entire warm body that Sherlock had been grabbing onto vanished as John almost threw himself across the room and away from Sherlock.

A slight overreaction perhaps.

* * *

><p>Once Ava had been sent back off to bed John let out a long breath and seemed to collapse against the wall, staring wide-eyed at Sherlock.<p>

"You're going to be hell aren't you?" John asked suddenly, sounding out of breath.

Curious, Sherlock tilted his head.

"I mean," John drew in a ragged breath, "You'll still insult everyone I introduce you to, leave things in the fridge that shouldn't be there, god knows what's on the window sill of your room at the moment. I'm never going to get a meal out of you or into you that isn't a takeaway, you'll smoke when we fight, probably forget I exist if the case is interesting enough and use sex to make me write for you."

"Would it work?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

John burst out laughing and Sherlock felt his own mouth twitch in response.

Carefully, as if waiting for him to suddenly vanish, John approached Sherlock again, his eyes darting as if to soak up every part of him.

"If we do this," John said slowly, hands fluttering as if he wanted to touch Sherlock, "It's a full partnership. No half-truths, no white lies, no leaving me in the dark for days and weeks on end-" he held up a hand when Sherlock opened his mouth, "I don't expect you to tell me every single thing as it happens but an update on the important things every so often might be good. You know, "I'm off to meet Moriarty and might not be coming back", that sort of thing."

"You wouldn't have left." Sherlock replied, watching the way the shadows danced on John's face as he stood so close.

"And that would have been my choice to make." John's lips firmed but he leaned in closer, "A full partnership. In every sense of the word." A smile breathed across his features, "It's the only compromise I'll demand."

"The experiments?"

"I missed watching you do them." John replied evenly.

A burst of warmth flooded Sherlock's chest. "The violin?"

"I'll give it back to you." John was close again now.

"The cases?"

A gleam of anticipation soared in John's eyes. "When I can."

The idea of dashing through London with John once again made Sherlock's blood pound in his ears. But the answer brought up another, more serious thought.

"Ava? I would have thought she was the other compromise."

John didn't lose the predatory glint on his eyes, bit his face softened in amusement, "You're an idiot," he said fondly.

Sherlock pulled back. "Why?"

John just shook his head and pulled Sherlock back down for another fierce kiss. Sherlock made to pull away, disliking the idea that John saw something he couldn't.

But then John's hands were tugging at his shirt and his lips were demanding and that warm silken tongue battled his own and the need to discover what had tickled John faded into want.

Those rough hands made fast work of the buttons, which was unfair because to get John's jumper off Sherlock would have to break the kiss. As it was, Sherlock ended up standing half naked without John removing so much as his watch.

Disliking that turn of events – one of the more brilliant reasons for doing this was the opportunity to observe John, not be…mauled in return– Sherlock backed John up against the back of the sofa, talking advantage when the doctor pulled back to see Sherlock. The jumper was pushed up and off, with barely a pause in between

that and Sherlock's own attack on John's buttons.

Steady hands swept over his back and shoulders, fingers tracing the skin and muscles beneath before trailing down the spine in a way that made Sherlock gasp into John's mouth.

The more he touched the hotter the burn became.

Frantic for more he abandoned the shirt, leaving it half open and attacked the jeans instead. A quick flick of his fingers popped the top and he didn't pause in moving his fingers down to grasp the zip.

"Not here. Ava." Brat. Damned brat.

It would be quicker to let go and drag John into his room, but the lips and teeth and tongue were as essential as air now and he couldn't bear to part from them.

Instead he managed to manoeuvre them through the kitchen, avoiding the fridge and into the hall. John followed with surprising ease – practice?- until Sherlock managed to find his bedroom door.

Against his back.

Those lips were on his neck now, talented nips and deadly laps that made his heart pound. The hands were on Sherlock's trousers, pulling the belt free with precise movements.

John was just as calm in his movements now as he was on a dangerous case.

The thought made Sherlock ache to grab John and just watch how long it took for him to shake again.

And then one of those damned hands was inside his trousers, winding through cloth until it wrapped around Sherlock and tugged.

With a gasp Sherlock slammed his head back against the door as his thoughts stuttered for a second, desperate to refocus. He wanted to see John, he wanted…

"Shush," John hissed into his neck.

"You started this here," Sherlock gasped back

John smiled against his skin; Sherlock could feel the lips move and the breathe of a chuckle against his collarbone as John shifted a little, still with his hand wrapped around Sherlock's cock as the other hand fumbled for the door handle.

The door would open; their positions would have to shift…

And the second that John moved as of to prevent Sherlock from falling (as if he wasn't aware of what was happening) Sherlock twisted them.

Only to have John twist them again as they stumbled backwards onto the bed.

"You're being insufferable," Sherlock muttered as John knelt above him.

"And I've waited for this a hell of a lot longer than you have." John said in between kisses as he worked down Sherlock's chest. "Suck it up and stop whining."

"I intended to."

Sherlock watched with unabashed joy as John paused and stared up at him, clearly thrown by the innuendo coming from Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled them.

As he brushed his mouth to John's, hands working once again on the jeans, John started to giggle.

Wary that it was another trick in John's repertoire, Sherlock laid himself almost entirely on John's body, hands underneath his chin and resting lightly upon John's chest as he quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Something amusing."

"Why have you stopped?" John asked, panting and glaring at him.

"You laughed. People do not laugh while engaged in this."

John's brown furrowed, though the laughter didn't leave his eyes. "You have done this before, right?"

Unimpressed, Sherlock glared and then moved his hands, shifting slightly and attacked one of the hard nubs on the chest on front of him with expert skills.

"F…Jesus, fine." John bucked a little and squirmed when Sherlock allowed his teeth to trace the skin.

Abruptly ,Sherlock lifted his head and resumed his previous position, enjoying that frustration that made John wriggle and try to switch their positions again.

"Git," John whined. "Stop…stopping."

Sherlock moved up again, keeping a lot of his body weight on John to prevent him from rolling them over. He nuzzled John's chin up and started to trace the veins and bones there, savouring the taste that made John. The laundry detergent, tea, aftershave, sweat, that bubble bath, soap and under it all the unique taste that was just John.

It was possible to feel John's pulse with his tongue and enjoy that way that it pounded at just this act. Just above him he could hear the aborted gasps as John tried to keep quiet.

Maybe they could send Ava to a friend's house every week.

Sneaking a hand down, Sherlock continued his attack at the jeans, until finally he could push them down and touch.

John hissed as Sherlock squeezed. Next time he would study all that he could but at the moment that only thing that Sherlock wanted to look at was John's face.  
>It was delicious to curl his tongue up the path of John's throat to his ear. John turned his head, nipping at the join of Sherlock's neck and shoulders.<p>

"Why did you laugh?" he whispered, noting as John's heaved in a gasp at that.

Interesting.

"B...because we're both damn stubborn." John arched up into Sherlock as much as he could manage. "I want to touch you. Watch you." He said, gripping Sherlock's back and head and pressing a kiss into the skin he'd been nibbling at.

"Next time." Sherlock offered, licking at the shell of the ear and feeling the heart beat stutter for a moment.

"Liar." John gasped.

"Well try harder next time." Sherlock amended and grinned as John laughed again. But this was a shaken laugh, as if John were starting to fall apart.

Not wanting to miss that, Sherlock pulled back a little, leaning up to stare down at John.

And found himself flat on his back.

John was chuckling again as he dipped his head down, hands wrapping around Sherlock's wrists and holding them over his head to pin him. Then there was another battle of wills as both of them fought for dominance.

And John's hand fumbled with something that wasn't Sherlock.

Hissing as Sherlock turned his head to the side, "I at least allowed your hands to roam."

"Your fault," John mumbled, "You're too crafty."

Sherlock chuckled and John stared down at him, eyes delighted and shifted again. One hand was still holding Sherlock's hands tight while the other wrapped around them both.

Gasping Sherlock stared up at John who looked ridiculously triumphant.

"John-"Sherlock started to…ask. Not beg.

He didn't beg.

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this?" John asked, hand speeding up perhaps a little too quick for Sherlock's liking but it could be refined later. "You, in my bed-"  
>"We're in my bed."<p>

John twisted his hand and Sherlock almost saw stars for a moment.

"You under me, looking like this." The hand holding Sherlock's wrist was loosening. "I'd sit for hours with you downstairs, imagining this."

God, that image. Sherlock felt himself hurtle close to the edge.

"Pretending you were in there with me, watching me, talking to me, touching me." John leant down and all Sherlock could focus on was those eyes. "Fucking me."

Too much. And Sherlock hurtled over with John close behind.

* * *

><p>They both lay side by side in a bed that looked like it had been used in a battle. The pillows were everywhere, the mattress sheet tangled, having come off from their movements and the duvet was half on and half off the bed.<p>

And John was unbearably smug.

"So that was good," John managed to say after a few minutes, turning his head to Sherlock's shoulder.

"Indeed," Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at his ceiling. "At least sex will never give us any problems."

John smoothed a hand over his chest. "Should eat," he said sleepily.

"It's two in the morning." Sherlock traced the fingers on his chest, paying attention to the old scars and burns from years ago. He needed to start analysing the body in front of him, needed to know it better than anyone ever had.

Or ever would.

As soon as he could move.

"mmm." John agreed and then groaned. "I need to get up."

"She won't notice for one night." Sherlock tucked a stray pillow under his head and stared at the pad of the index finger, noting that the swirls of lines on the pad had been erased by hot metal. It was a strip, as if John had touched the end of a rifle, catching the rim.

John was too careful and too precise to make a mistake like that. Had it been an early error in his first few weeks of service or a necessary action in the heat of battle?

"It's Saturday. Can sleep in." John explained, sounding half-asleep already. "Can't sleep in here."

"I'll wake you." Sherlock offered, his hand moving until John lifted his head slightly and Sherlock's arm rested in-between the crook of his shoulder and the bed.  
>John sighed.<p>

Then moved.

Irritated, Sherlock watched John roll himself into sitting position but then found his eyes drawn to the shoulder wound.

So much to explore.

John turned his head to smile at Sherlock sleepily and then frowned and shifted uncomfortably.

"God, you're going to stare at everything, aren't you?" John asked warily.

"If I have to keep body parts out of the fridge you can put up with me exploring every inch of you." Sherlock replied reasonably and watched John's eyes dilate at that.

There was a strange burning glee at the idea John was his. That he could spend days trying to see what would make John's breath hitch at the mere mention of it.  
>John smiled, almost shyly, which was an expression Sherlock had never really seen before. Then John spotted something and that expression disappeared.<p>

Standing, John padded over to the corner of the room, naked, and stared at the window sill folding his arms.

"Eyes?" he asked, sounding unimpressed.

"They aren't in the kitchen." Sherlock reminded him, turning to watch John. The man still needed to gain some weight and he really needed to be under Sherlock, submitting to his gaze…

"They were watching us?" John tapped the glass and winced as one of the eyeball floated up to the surface.

"They aren't sentient." Sherlock eyed him up, wondering if he would start with the head or the feet…

"Put a pillow case over them next time or something." John muttered, reaching for his boxers and keeping an eye on the eyeballs as if they would suddenly eat him.

"Stay and I will."

John paused, "I…I want to. I do. I…" John came close to the bed again and knelt beside it, head by Sherlock's. "We'll figure it out tomorrow." He offered. "But I can't have Ava waking to us kissing and then be in here the next morning." John stroked Sherlock's hair gently, almost reverently, "I won't have a leg to stand on when she starts dating otherwise," he joked.

"She's five, she won't start dating for years." Sherlock snapped, stopping the idea in his thought before he could examine it further.

John sighed, "It's not as far off as you might think," John winced and stood, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Forbid it," Sherlock said, twisting so that he was curled around John, stroking a lazy finger on the thigh in front of him. Scars from shrapnel littered the skin in tiny shapes. By the end of the week he would be able to draw them perfectly from memory.

"Yeah, that will work." John's shoulders dropped as he started to relax again, "Christ, being raised by us two I can imagine that would be like a red rag to a bull."

Raised by us two.

Sherlock didn't let his finger halt in its movements and John was too tired to notice anything else.

"You're doing a terrible job of going upstairs."

Nodding, John stood and started to get dressed. Sherlock sat up and started to do the same.

"Where are you going"? John asked, pausing as he buttoned up his shirt.

"Out," Sherlock said, putting on his shoes, "I have to track down a wooden flute,"

John's eyes shifted to the clock and he stared disbelievingly at Sherlock.

"Seriously?"

Sherlock peered up at him, "Why would I joke about it?"

The swollen mouth gaped at him slightly and then John just nodded, "Ok," he said, sounding a little unsure.

Pressing a kiss to the corner of John's lips Sherlock was, this time, able to detect some of his own scent on John and smiled against the skin. "Tomorrow." Sherlock offered.

Dazed ,John nodded and Sherlock grabbed his coat as he walked out.

It was only when he managed to get three streets away that he paused and leaned against the wall, wishing for a cigarette.

_Raised by us two._

Why hadn't he seen that one coming?

* * *

><p>Next Chapter: Sherlock gets his first case and battles through his first encounter with a crying child.<p> 


	9. Part 1: Chapter Eight

**AN - Apologies for the delay. But it's a really long chapter so hopefully that makes up for it! It's also unbeta'd so apologies for any daft mistakes!**

**Warning**: There are spoilers for the ACD story "Dancing Men". If you want to see what the code looks like then it is shown in the story.

* * *

><p>Thank you all so much for the fab response to Paved with Love and for still favouritingreading and reviewing :)

* * *

><p><strong>December 12<strong>**th**

It wasn't hard to ensure he returned after Ava and John had left for the day. The pair had gone off to do some Christmas shopping and all it took was a text to Mycroft's team who were spying across the road to tell him when they'd gone.

_Raised by_.

John was clearly mad. No-one in their right minds would allow Sherlock the chance to part raise a goldfish, let alone a small child.

What did he know about raising a child?

Mycroft was waiting for him in the living room when Sherlock walked up the stairs.

"Any particular reason you're avoiding the good doctor this morning?" Mycroft asked pouring tea.

"Do you really have nothing better to do?" Sherlock hissed, staring down at his brother and refusing to budge.

"Think of it as me making up for lost time," Mycroft said silkily, adding milk.

Sherlock eyed the windows, trying to work out how clear the securities view would have been of last night's events.

"Or I could think of it as your voyeuristic tendency raising it's ugly head." Sherlock commented sitting himself down with a challenging smirk.

Mycroft inclined his head as he raised the tea cup to his lips, "Can I assume you were enamoured enough that you forgot the security you yourself demanded?"

"No," Sherlock reached for the cup Mycroft had prepared for him, "I merely knew how empty your life is."

The tea was far too sweet for his taste but he wasn't going to pull a face and react. Mycroft had been pulling this stunt since they were children.

"Messed it up already have we?" Mycroft asked in a cutting tone. "That's quite a feat Sherlock, even for you given how Doctor Watson's been pining after you all these years."

That was irritating. Sherlock covered his reaction with another sip of the terrible tea. Mycroft had picked up on John's feelings before he had.

"What did you do?" Mycroft asked again, smug that he'd won that particular snipping match.

Sullenly Sherlock glared at the desk next to them and the papers upon it. Ava's homework; the dreaded list of spellings sat on top of his laptop.

When he looked back Mycroft seemed thoughtful. Picking at a chip on the handle Sherlock stared at the milky white liquid and wondered if Mycroft had even bothered to show the tea-bag to the water.

And damned the fact that Mycroft might be the only person who would answer Sherlock's questions without staring at him like he'd gone mad.

"Did you ever consider children?" he asked, steadfastly not looking at his brother.

"Once." Mycroft replied after the smallest hesitation.

"And?"

Mycroft let out an exasperated huff, "It surely did not escape your notice that he had a child?"

"I did not expect that he would wish to share the raising of that child." Sherlock muttered to his tea.

A quick glance at Mycroft showed the sudden intake of breath. Good, at least he hadn't been the only one caught unaware. Mycroft sat back, lost in his thoughts.

The silence stretched on.

"Clearly you have a lot to say on the subject," Sherlock said as he finished the tea.

"I can hardly pretend to be an expert in these matters." Mycroft sighed, "I am as ill equipped as you."

And that was the problem wasn't it? Sherlock thought as Mycroft stood and lifted his coat from where it had been neatly folded over the desk chair.

"Though if I may offer a thought," Mycroft said as he shrugged into the coat. "It would appear that in this matter you and I should bow to the Doctors wisdom?"

Sherlock tilted his head to glare up at the man.

"Then, as a man who is devoted to his daughter and fastidious about her safety, can we not assume that he has thought this through more than you or I ever could." Mycroft pealed on his gloves.

"That seems unlikely," Sherlock sulked.

"You never did learn how to delegate." Mycroft shook his head, "John is a parent. I am informed that most of them care who is involved in the raising of their child. Unless you think him to be an irresponsible twit who lacks both morals and intelligent reasoning."

Sherlock fixed his brother with a foul look. "Goodbye Mycroft,"

* * *

><p>There was something wrong with the world if Mycroft could trap him into changing his mind this quickly.<p>

Sherlock paced.

The logic was infallible, which was usually Mycroft's choice of ammunition. So neat and perfect that it left the listener with little choice but agreement. It was why Sherlock so rarely listened to the man, lest he start sounding reasonable and agreeable.

It was maddening. Infuriating. The kind of aggravating buzz that made him yearn for a case to distract him.

And, as if someone was finally listening, the phone rang.

* * *

><p>"The wife's still in hospital." Lestrade said as they walked down to the morgue. "She's in bad shape," he shrugged it away. "The husband died from a bullet to the heart. Theory is the wife killed him and then turned the gun on herself."<p>

Sherlock threw him a disgusted look, "She was hardly trying hard if she missed her own brain."

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah, I had realised that Sherlock." He took a deep breath, "Anyway, I've got three murders on my hands so," he waved at the door "it's all yours. No-one's looking at this too hard but you might be the only person on the planet who'll love the idea of beating the wife to explaining what happened."

It did have a certain appeal.

* * *

><p>Alone in the blessed silence of the morgue Sherlock studied the body in front of him.<p>

The victim hadn't been rich but he'd come from an old family that had some property. Likely it was falling into disrepair. The clothes were of good quality but not new and the watch, signet ring and wedding ring all spoke of old wealth that didn't compute with the weathered hands of a labourer, the badly cut hair and the threadbare socks that were piled next to the body.

Newly married though…perhaps just over a year…certainly just over a year. The ring was old but polished and there was genuine affection in the way that the ring had clearly been twisted about the finger; a nervous habit that likely meant the ring was an object of security and comfort. There was a receipt for a moderately expensive meal for two in his wallet, the only receipt to be found in a rather anally organised wallet that was clearly a gift from a birthday. A look at the birth date on the driving licence told Sherlock that it was too well used to be from the most recent birthday but it had been of high quality which suggested a high level of regard…a gift to a fiancée or serious partner, but not from a wife. They would have agreed on a joint present on the way couples with money problems did – an agreement on buying a new television or some practical present like that.

Which suggested a genuine marriage or partnership-

"_It's a full partnership."_

John's compromise echoed back to him and Sherlock felt a strange momentary sorrow that the woman in the hospital bed had lost her partner…

Then shook himself.

What was he doing?

Fuming he turned back to the pile of belongings. The coat was worn and weather beaten which told him no new information other than the man had worked outside a lot. And…

Ahh. Interesting. At last.

Tucked inside the jacket pocket were strange hastily scrawled notes comprising of symbols.

* * *

><p>It was a cypher. And Lestrade let him take it home.<p>

How that burned that he'd had to ask nicely rather than just walk away with it in his pocket, with Lestrade none the wiser.

"Finished yet?" John asked as Sherlock reached the top of the stairs.

Sherlock paused on the threshold, "Finished?" he asked.

"I've dated enough neurotic women to know when someone's having a panic." John turned the page of his newspaper calmly as if the situation was perfectly normal.

"I'm not neurotic," Sherlock huffed, stalking in taking the letters out of his pocket.

"And that's the adjective you choose to take issue with?" John muttered as he perused the headlines.

"You're hilarious," Sherlock glared. "Or perhaps it' your own insecurities dwelling on the idea of me as a woman."

As soon as he said it he winced and closed his eyes.

Switching between cases and home was not going to be easy.

"No, you're not panicking at all," John's voice was clipped. "Still, it did manage to interest you for almost three hours so I should be flattered."

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock muttered, "I…I thought about you on a case."

There was a pause and then John finally put the paper down and turned. With a sigh he stood and walked over.

"You thought about me on a case?" he asked standing at the head of the table.

""Yes," Sherlock replied annoyed.

A slow smile crept into John's eyes and tugged at the corners of his lips. "Why did you panic?" he asked softly.

Sherlock shot John a look, "You didn't work it out?"

"That was always my problem." John seemed amused. "I could never figure the lunatics' reasons out."

Unsure whether to take offence at being lumped in with the dull women John had dated or to preen at how easily he seemed to have dissuaded John from frankly moronic idea that he'd changed his mind, Sherlock settled on ignoring both and opened the envelopes.

"You mentioned raising Ava together." Sherlock said as he removed the letters to study the cypher.

"You do realise that's a very typical reaction for someone dating a single parent?" John asked silkily.

Typical was simply a synonym for ordinary. Pausing in what he was doing Sherlock glared at John.

"Yes, you've made your point," he snapped.

John grinned and stepped forward the shy look appearing again. Then he seemed to think better of what he'd been about to do and moved towards the kettle.

Despite himself Sherlock smiled down at the cyphers.

"So what are they?" John asked, sitting across from him and offering up a cup of tea to Sherlock. "Or have you suddenly become a fan of stick figure art? Cause Ava's artistic ability just about stretches to stick figures and she'll be thrilled."

Amused Sherlock swung one of the letters around so it faced John. "What do you see?"

The flare of interest and spark of challenge in John's eye made Sherlock's gut twist with glee.

John cleared his throat, "Symbols." He said finally. "They're repeated?"

Sherlock let nothing show on his face, even when John looked even more interested as his eyes flickered over the letters.

"Hint?" Sherlock asked.

"You never give hints," John stared up at him with a crooked smile.

"Not to just friends, no."

The smile turned sweet and John shifted, "I…ok."

Sherlock pulled back, determined to be business like about it all. "The case at the bank, when we were first living together."

"The case of the blind banker?"

He'd tried to forget some of the hideous names John had created for the cases. "Yes," he replied allowing his distaste to show.

"What…It's a cypher," John answered without hesitancy.

Sherlock smirked and twisted the letters back.

"So how do you figure out the code?" John asked.

"By thinking."

John let out a long breath, "I'm going for a walk."

"What, why?" Sherlock asked snapping his head up.

"Because, as thrilling as you may think it is to watch you sit in silence and then snark and snarl when anyone makes the smallest bit of noise, I have things to do. And a daughter to pick up and distract since I'm sure she'll drive you insane whilst you're doing this."

"I can handle-"

"Daddy, why were you and Sherlock snogging last night? Daddy why don't you two cuddle on the sofa like they do in films? Daddy, are you and Sherlock going to get married? Daddy are you two going to make silly noises in bed like Tommy's mum does when his Uncle comes round?" John asked in a mokcing tone.

Sherlock felt his mouth drop slightly.

John waited.

"Fair enough," Sherlock said, ducking his head back to the code. "How long before the questions go away?"

"Well usually I'd say a day but some clever sod told her that it's good to ask questions." John looked utterly triumphant as he stood opposite Sherlock.

"Distract her," Sherlock suggested.

"With?"

"Small fluffy animals?" They always seemed to be doing that on the ridiculous BBC channel she watched.

"You want me to get her a pet."

"No," God no.

"Want me to pick up dinner?"

Nodding Sherlock scanned the letters. Logic would dictate that the most frequent character be an "e"…

Warm hands gripped his chin and then wet lips that tasted of tea…he'd forgotten the cup that John had given him…pressed against his.

It was soothing. Relaxing and he could feel the tension ebb from his shoulders as if John was pulling out the effects from a morning of worrying thoughts.

John pulled away, scanned his face, nodded to himself and picked up his jacket while Sherlock stood blinking at the letters.

"Any reason for that?" he asked, surprised at the gruffness of his voice.

John grinned as he picked up his keys, "I'm pretty sure I don't need one," he winked and then disappeared round the corner and down the stairs.

There was something very good about that, Sherlock decided. Even if he had forgotten to pull the curtains again.

* * *

><p>The code, once broken (two and a half hours, thank you very much), revealed persuasive messages which dulled the case a little. The husband had clearly copied them off of a series of texts messages, going from the numbers under each message and the content suggested a former lover who felt wronged by the recent marriages and cheated in some-way.<p>

It was only the last and most recent note (newer ink, fresher paper, less smudges that often indicated re-reading meant he didn't even have to glance at the date numbers) that the threat appeared.

_Prepare to meet God._

And there was a useful one for Lestrade in one of the earlier messages.

_Am here Abe Slaney_.

How kind of the murderer to sign his name.

* * *

><p>"Just send it," Sherlock huffed at Lestrade as the inspector held the wife's phone hesitantly. "Copy what I have drawn and send it."<p>

Lestrade kept glancing between the message that Sherlock had drawn and Sherlock himself.

Huffing Sherlock flung himself into the chair, "I have explained it, I have proved it by showing you the symbols on the wife's phone that she once used. I have written it up. Just send the damned thing."

"Sherlock-"

"Once he turns up you'll be able to search his phone. You'll see the symbols on the phone that he can use to text with."

"Sherlock-"

"What?"

"The name hasn't rung any bells?" Lestrade asked, leaning against the desk.

"Name?"

"Abe Slaney?"

Abe Slaney. Sherlock scanned his mind palace.

_Chicago_

_Gang_

_Wanted_

"Well isn't it your lucky day inspector?" Sherlock huffed, "Though I imagine he will try to crawl his way out of it."

"Probably," Lestrade agreed, staring at the symbols.

"Do you want to know how to make sure he won't manage it?" When Lestrade looked up Sherlock glared, "Text him so I can get home for dinner."

Lestrade finally did as he was told, though the suspicious look that was thrown at Sherlock made him a little uneasy.

* * *

><p>"Did you solve a case?" Ava asked as he walked into the kitchen.<p>

"Silly question," John teased as he cut up her meat. "Sherlock would still be running around London if he hadn't. Yours is in the oven," he said absently.

Sherlock eyed the oven with distrust. "It works?" he asked.

"Well, we're about to find out," John said returning the knife and fork to Ava. "Make sure you eat some carrots too," he scolded her.

"Do carrots really help you to see in the dark?" Ava asked.

"No," Sherlock said at the same time that John said "Yes,"

Sherlock busied himself getting his plate out of the oven. "But they taste better than most vegetables." He added, "So if you have to eat any, it may as well be carrots."

Bizarrely she seemed satisfied by that and continued to eat.

"You gave your notes to Lestrade?" John asked watching as Sherlock sat down.

"Yes."

"And he read it all without yawning?"

Narrowing his eyes Sherlock toyed with the food in front of him, "Just because you chose to make everything into a flight of fancy does not mean everyone else dislikes accurate and useful detail."

John nudged Ava, "He's calling me a bad storyteller." He said, in the kind of voice the dog owners used to say "sic'em."

Ava glared. "Daddy does the best voices in the whole world" she said forcefully, lifting her chin. "And everyone at school's jealous of his stories."

John munched on his food with an evil smile and a challenging raise of his eyebrows. Ava just scowled.

"Well played."

* * *

><p>John was uncomfortable about something. His posture screamed it as his eyes darted up and then back at the television again. Even from Sherlock's position at the table he could see that from the way his head tilted and the twitches of his ears.<p>

Ears. He hadn't had nearly enough time to study the reactions John had. There had been some sensitivity there, but it seemed to be more Sherlock's voice that had unravelled the man. That was good – far easier to tease with a voice than with an ear.

If John would relax and stop looking at the ceiling every five minutes as if there was a bomb about to go off.

It wasn't Sherlock's presence that was making John anxious. The glances were in the wrong direction. It wasn't Ava either, who had been sent to bed nearly an hour and a half ago; John would be glancing at the stairs if that was the case and he was in a good position to do so.

An object then? For a terrible moment Sherlock considered that it might be some romantic gesture and then dismissed the thought: John was far too practical and knew Sherlock far too well.

It was distracting and a far more interesting puzzle than Lestrade's insistence that he make his notes more "jury friendly," If they were such plebeians then they shouldn't be given the responsibility of deciding the outcomes of court-cases.

John hadn't even commented on Sherlock's task yet which meant he hadn't realised what Sherlock was doing. Because if he had there was no way that John would be sitting uncomfortable in his favourite chair and squirming. He'd be chortling with glee.

"Whatever it is, get it." Sherlock muttered after twenty minutes of watching. He suspected that it might be useful for future reference to know all the signs of John being uncomfortable, after all, it was likely to happen often given Sherlock's day to day life.

And personality.

And lack of interest in social niceties.

John turned to glare suspiciously, "What?" he asked attempting to look innocent.

It was gratifying to see that, despite their change in relationship, John's terrible acting skills roused nothing else besides vague amusement and irritation.

"Do you want me to deduce what you wish to get from upstairs or do you want to just go and get it?" Sherlock continued, typing away, knowing better than to hope John would notice that it was possible to use more than two fingers at a time when using the keyboard.

John sighed and eased out of the chair, switching the television off without a word. For a moment it seemed as if he was going to say something but instead he left the room.

When Sherlock heard him coming back down the stairs he purposefully kept his eyes on the screen. It was only when John placed a rather familiar looking case on the table that Sherlock tore his gaze away.

A violin case.

Slowly Sherlock raised his eyes to John's. But John was staring at the violin case, his finger tracing the edge slowly. Then, as if realising he was being watched, John pushed the case closer to Sherlock.

He still hadn't said a word.

John's shoulders slumped a little before dipping further down and smoothing out into a soldiers stance. It really was quite fascinating to see how John used his training during "stressful" moments.

Sherlock drew in a breath and turned back to the screen, starting to type once more as his brain whirled on ahead. Why was John giving that back to him now?

Guilt?

No, John had a message in returning the violin; there was something more that Sherlock wasn't seeing.

Sentiment. It was such a fickle thing…

Ahh.

"I hardly think that one night with under an hour in bed is enough to establish trust." Sherlock said, punctuating his words with his fingers upon the keys.

"Just take it back," John muttered clearly uncomfortable. "The room's small enough as it is with both Ava and I in it, without adding your stuff too."

Misdirection. A sloppy attempt and painfully obvious.

A look was enough to show John that he hadn't been fooled, and really, John ought to know better.

John crossed his arms, "I don't want to talk about it, just take it."

Ignoring the box, Sherlock stood up and advanced on John who immediately backed up.

That was unexpected.

Observing a discrete distance, Sherlock waited as John fixed his attention on the violin case again. Curious Sherlock allowed his gaze to switch between the case and John.

"I told you I'd return it to you," John said tightly. His shoulders were now rigid and his back utterly straight gaze fixed and chin stern.

He was very stressed then, if he was standing so firmly.

Sherlock nudged his thoughts slightly. It required something of a paradigm shift to change the way he automatically dealt with John. They were no longer friends…

He could step forward. He could see the nervous flutter of eye lashes as John's eyes tried not to watch what he was doing.

He was allowed to step into John's personal space and lower his head to nuzzle at the almost rough cheek. To breathe in the scent that was John and home.

He was allowed to murmur "Tell me," in a soft voice.

And John swallowed. "You were playing when I…when I first saw you as something other than a friend."

It made sense and didn't. Sherlock was starting to think that was the way that sentiment worked most of the time. It did make him feel strangely tender, which was ridiculous given that the man in front of him was capable of killing if the situation called for it.

Uneasy at the mixed emotions, Sherlock dipped his lips to meet John's. It was soft this time, soft and reassuring and comforting. John's hand tightened in his hair and it felt as if John was hanging on to Sherlock for dear life.

Soft turned to want very quickly. Sherlock suddenly felt the urge to prove…something, anything. That he was alive and with John and wouldn't be going anywhere if he could help it He wanted to show John that he was corporeal and have John anchor him back to life again.

And this time John was pliable. This time John wasn't chuckling or staring with a mischievous gleam. This time when they stumbled back into Sherlock's room –damn it he'd forgotten to shut that bloody curtain again – John didn't buck and raise that challenging eyebrow but instead allowed Sherlock to push him back onto the bed and press against him. He allowed Sherlock to peel off his clothes and explore with his hands because, despite this new and unexplored submissive side of John, there was no way that John would give up Sherlock's mouth.

It was absorbing, tracing John by touch alone. Feeling the jut of hip bones, the softness of the golden dusting of chest hair. To feel the differences in the strength of John's right and left wrists and the elegant dip of his collarbone. To lay a hand upon John's throat and feel the muscles move under his palm as they kissed and the way his pulse fluttered. To let the short strands of hair slip through the tips of his fingers. He could start to sketch John in his mind through touch alone, revelling in the different perspective. He needed the broad strokes first, detail and minute facts could be added in later.

Something in him soared at the idea that there would be a later.

It had been years since he'd just kissed. Just lain with someone and explored them properly. Not since his earliest experiments in this area had he tried to learn someone's body through his hands. There was something different about doing it for the simple sake of exploring rather than the sake of testing.

When Sherlock was satisfied that he'd discovered as much as he could, he let his hand delve in between them and delighted in John's strangled whimper into his mouth when he curled a hand around John's cock. Finally John pulled away from his lips, head tilting back to bare his throat and gasp at the ceiling.

Sherlock wanted more of the previous noise. He leaned up to grab those lips again, to feel the vibrations of John's moans. But as he moved John's eyes flickered open.

John had always been an open book. His mixture of frank honesty and unexplored depths had always been something of a siren song.

The dichotomy of John Watson. The confidence and the vulnerability, the assured body language and hesitant looks, the controlled lead and flushed cheeks.

Whatever experience John had in this new area of their relationship had likely reached its peak last night.

And didn't that make his mind sing in possessive pleasure.

Sherlock ghosted his lips over John's before sinking down. Down until John stiffened with realisation and clutched at his shoulders to pull him back up.

Sherlock tilted his gaze up and shot him an enquiring look. "Problem?"

John panted and seemed to collect his thoughts, "I…afterwards I haven't…" he grinned, suddenly self-deprecating, "Might not be able to pay you back properly," he settled on saying.

Sherlock nipped at the soft skin of John's inner thigh. "I would hope you wouldn't be so dull as to merely copy and repeat" he chided, "My turn, your turn, bores me rigid."

John's twisted in amusement, "Pardon the pun?"

Ignoring the sudden childish humour Sherlock swallowed him down and listened to the suddenly hoarse yelp that echoed from John.

Pulling back he tapped John's leg, "Quiet," he scolded, before resuming his task.

* * *

><p>John's head leaned upon his hip as his hand lazily stroked circles on Sherlock's stomach. Even with his eyes closed Sherlock couldn't resist the urge to let his hand rest on the nape of John's neck and stroke against the shortest hairs there.<p>

"You were annoyed at Mycroft," John said suddenly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Perhaps they should have bedroom rules. Rules such as banning Mycroft's name being mentioned.

John shifted against his hip. "You were playing some childish limerick. Then you stared to play every rude bawdy song you knew. And then you had me teach you every song I heard in the army."

Not long after Baskerville. Barely three months before Sherlock had left and only a week before Jim Moriarty had broken into the tower of London.

Two months John had managed to hide his feelings. Even more impressive was the fact that he'd managed a whole week while Sherlock hadn't been distracted by the consulting criminal.

Sherlock couldn't decide if that intrigued or annoyed him.

Still, that evening had made him smile during the years apart. John's wincing grins as he took a swig of beer for dutch courage. He had a dreadful singing voice but it had been enough to convey the basic tune. He'd collapsed into contagious giggles after the first few really rowdy ones and Sherlock had found it hard to keep a straight face. They'd stayed up until the early hours of the morning just swapping stories to make each other laugh.

"And you played Ave Maria before we went to bed. God knows why." John muttered.

Sherlock felt his heart thud strangely.

Ava.

John must have felt his reaction because he pushed up Sherlock's body and pressed a kiss to his mouth, "Well I could hardly name her Sherlockena now, could I?"

Unwilling to navigate that topic until he'd had time to think it through, Sherlock shifted to allow John some room on the pillow. "Perhaps it was the amount of alcohol you drank." He said after a moment to change the topic and take advantage of John's post orgasm haze.

"Hmm?" John queried, pressing into the pillow.

"The reason that you saw me in a different light. Perhaps it was the beer."

John shook his head with a sleepy smile, "I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun just sitting in a room with another person and doing nothing in particular." He yawned, "And then watching you play…you're incredible to watch. Your hands…" Then, as if realising what he'd said, John squinted at him, "When you want to play properly," he scolded.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling.

"Did you miss it? Playing?" John asked.

"It's hardly the only violin in the world," Sherlock muttered.

"I suppose not," John agreed, sounding too tired to get riled up by his comment.

Sherlock allowed the silence to drift. At least until it was punctuated by John's slight snoring.

Only when he was certain that John was sound asleep did Sherlock get out of bed, throw on a dressing gown, stalk into the living room and yank both sets of curtains shut before he sat at the table and stared at the violin case, lost in thought.

And, as agreed, he woke John up at half five so he could sneak back to his room. Ava was left none the wiser and John seemed to have no idea that he'd spent most of the night alone.

* * *

><p><strong>December 15<strong>**th**

The wife confirmed Sherlock's theory when she woke up two days later. Heartbroken she sobbed out her statement and begged to see her husband one last time.

At least no-one could claim he'd faked that one. And Lestrade managed to keep his name out of the papers when the press finally seized upon the story, given who the murder culprit was.

"It's your own fault for solving it too quickly," John commented as he and Ava got ready that morning. John was doing his tie in the living room and Ava was distinctly not brushing her hair as she'd been asked.

"Are you suggesting I drag the cases out?" Sherlock sulked watching the activity from his perch on the sofa. "Lestrade will be thrilled."

"You know what I meant." John muttered doing his tie the quick way, indicating that the former soldier couldn't give a stuff about whatever it was he'd been roped into going to. "Ava, the brush isn't there for decoration," he called over his shoulder as the little girl started to scribble on some scrap paper. "You didn't have to show off."

"Please," Sherlock curled up and turned the volume up on the television, "I could take years to solve the mystery of what's in Mrs Hudson's corner drawer and you'd still gape in awe."

John dropped his hands from his completed tie knot and tilted his head, "I doubt it seeing as you gave it to her."

Sherlock tore his eyes from the television and glanced at john. "She told you," he said sniffing in annoyance.

"About the antimony?" John made a disapproving noise, "She thought it would cheer me up."

Confused by that logic, Sherlock dismissed it as unimportant and sniffed indifferently.

"Ava!" John turned and held out a hand, "If you aren't going to do it, come here."

The five year old trailed into Sherlock's line of vision. "I want to stay at home in my dressing gown," she sulked, clutching the bear to her chest and holding the hair brush so loosely that it looked like it would drop to the floor any second.

John bent and lifted her sitting back in his chair so that Ava was perched on his lap and started to brush the raggedy mop of hair. "When you know as much as Sherlock does, you can," he said, trying to dislodge a rather reluctant tangle. "Until then, you need to go to school."

Ava eyed Sherlock up with clear jealousy in her blue gaze. Chewing her lip she seemed to be processing that information and coming up with a plan.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, dragging his eyes from the plotting child.

"I told you," John muttered, smoothing the now neatly brushed hair with one hand, looking slightly nervous now, as he always did when faced with Ava's hair and a bobble. "It's a conference on the benefits of the new treatment for diabetes, they're swapping over the tablets and we need to…" John huffed and stopped when he finally caught the bored expression on Sherlock's face, "Why ask?" he huffed.

"I don't feel well," Ava announced.

John barely even glanced at her, "Well enough to eat the cocoa pops this morning though?" he queried.

Ava's nose wrinkled and returned to chewing her lip.

"You'll be back late," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, and as I said before, Mrs Hudson will pick Ava up. If you're going to be around tonight then she can sleep in her room-"

"It's our room Daddy," Ava corrected, trying to turn around. John pulled a face as the hair slipped through his fingers and he had to attempt the ponytail again.

"-if not then she can stay in Mrs Hudson's spare room," John manoeuvred the band with surprising difficulty for one so usually adept and nimble with his fingers. "You don't have to do anything but sulk."

Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to rebuke that statement.

"I'm sulking," Ava chirped up before he could say a word, "Can I stay at home and sulk here too."

John leaned back, staring at his handy-work with a pained sigh, "I thought you wanted to go to school today because they're taking you to church," he said with a put upon voice, "I mean if you really want to-"

"Can I not go to church and see the presents and then come home?" Ava asked plaintively.

"No," John lifted her off his lap. "And I think you'll find that there's more to going to church than seeing the presents."

"But the songs are slow." Ava's bottom lip jutted out slightly before she turned to Sherlock. "Do you like church?"

"Why on earth is she going to church?" Sherlock muttered.

"'Cause you have to go loads at Christmas. Tommy said it's the law." Ava replied solemnly.

Christmas.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling as John and Ava continued on with their morning.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock walked through the front door at just before nine that evening, he paused on the stairs. Then continued on, pausing at the door to observe Mrs Hudson watching some soap thing that he was almost pained to have blaring from his television.<p>

"Ooh, if you're back I'll just nip off once the music starts," she said cheerfully from her spot.

Silently he glanced around the flat. Ava's book bag was on the table and the oven had been used once again. John wasn't back yet, but then he'd known that from the spate of texts over the past few hours. Most of them complaining how dull the meeting was and how bad the trains were.

One memorable one had suggested a far better use of their time.

A whole new world of texting had just been opened up.

* * *

><p>The violin hadn't been touched since the night John had returned the case to Sherlock. Carefully Sherlock drew it out, noting that John had either kept the stings and bow in working condition or had taken it somewhere recently to ensure the violin was in working order.<p>

Either way the gesture was thoughtful.

The familiarity of standing at the window, watching the world and letting his hands draw out the long melodic notes was soothing. The view was perfect to watch the world walk by and clear enough to dip in and out of the lives of the passers-by without too much effort, all the while giving their walk a soundtrack that only he could hear.

He was not waiting for John. That would be too…too much.

But as his thoughts turned to John he could hear the music change. Instead of the fluid, lazy tune that he had been coaxing out from the instrument, the tune was turning more structured, more melodic.

After all, if John had attributed so much worth to the song, Sherlock really needed to ensure that he could still manage Bach's violin version of Ave Maria.

It was softer than the choir version. Sweeter and more subtle. Lulling in many ways and the reason he'd chosen it that night. John had still been suffering from nightmares stirred up from Baskerville, likely the army setting and the mine explosion more than Sherlock's test in the lab. Sherlock had been sure to wear him out with laughter and then soothe him with the music until he could barely keep his eyes open.

It was foolish to wonder how different things might have been had he tried a different approach to wearing John out and cajoling him into sleep. The method Sherlock was currently using was working wonders.

"Please don't send me away."

A sudden sniffing noise and choked hiccups startled him from his musings. Surprised at the sight of a crying Ava, Sherlock allowed the bow to screech before he lowered the instrument.

In her pink pyjamas and mused hair from sleep, Ava looked like a tiny doll that had just woken up. Sleepy eyes blinked up at him, the blue depths filled with spilling tears and her cheeks were flushed.

"Are you sick?" he asked, blindly scrabbling for a reason she was up.

"If I say yes can you not send me away?" Ava sniffed miserably.

"Send you…" Sherlock begun.

He needed John. How was he meant to know what was going on in the child's head? It was hardly relevant information

Or at least it hadn't been relevant information. Just one more thing that needed to change.

Trying not to let his frustration show Sherlock took a deep breath, "Why would we, what did you do?" he asked suspiciously.

"Daddy had to look after me last time and now you want to be together and you'll have to send me away," she sobbed.

"What?" he asked. A tickle at the back of his mind indicated that he'd had a similar conversation with her before about this. That conversation however had not ended in her in tears hours after she was meant to be asleep.

Not to mention that fact that her statement made no sense whatsoever.

"How on earth have you come to that conclusion?"

Ava shrugged, "I don't know," she said in a tiny voice that wobbled distressingly.. "Mrs Parker said people who fall in love want to be on their own."

That bloody teacher again. It was all Ava would ever talk about, as if the woman had hung the earth or something.

"Mrs Parker is an idiot." Sherlock settled for announcing.

"No she isn't." Ava wiped her nose on the back of her hand and Sherlock glanced around helplessly for a tissue. Children seemed to get very snotty when they got upset.

"You are not being sent anywhere." Sherlock said firmly, giving up the tissue scan as she wiped her hand on her pyjama top.

John could deal with that, he decided. John owed him for this.

"Even if you don't like me most of the time?" Ava asked between sniffs.

It was surprising how much that unsettled him. The idea that she thought he didn't like her. That she thought he would want to get rid of her.

Though he'd still gladly take anyone up on the offer of having the flat Ava free for a few nights to see how loud he could get John to be.

Placing the violin onto the desk he walked towards her carefully. She was tired, and most of this worry came from the fact that she was struggling to keep her eyes open. But she was standing still and firm, clearly unwilling to back away from the issue.

Carefully, Sherlock folded himself down onto the rug in front of her so they were eye level.

She was a stubborn little thing.

"Why do you think I don't like you?" he asked, trying to balance his tone between instructional and challenging.

But Ava just shrugged her shoulders.

Why the child insisted on shrugging he had no idea. It irritated him no end – it was a lazy answer, worse even than Andersons' uninspired grunts. At least his lungs made some effort.

"I've told you before that is not a valid answer." Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Tell me the evidence."

Ava eyed him suspiciously, but seemed a bit bolder now that he'd sat at her level. "You get annoyed that you have to hide the jar of fingers and all the other things. And you hate that I watched CBBC. And you don't like it when I ask you questions, even though you try to get Daddy to ask questions. And you don't like sharing Daddy with me." Sherlock watched as Ava squared her chin and waited.

Clever, clever girl.

There was a strange burst of…pride?...in his chest at her words. No other five year old could have managed that so succinctly. And no other child could surprise him quite that much.

Still she stood her ground, even as she swiped at her mouth with a nervous lick of her tongue.

"You are so much like your father," he heard himself say.

And so utterly, at the same time, her own little person. One day he would be talking to a grown up version of Ava, a version that he would have influenced and shaped.

A person that he and John would have raised and presented to the world.

And suddenly, that very true list that she had rattled off didn't seem quite so bad when faced with this newest idea.

* * *

><p>John walked in half an hour later, looking thoroughly hacked off.<p>

"Is Ava upstairs?" John asked, yanking the tie loose and almost throwing it across the room.

"Yes," Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling.

John let out an irritated sound, "Think the shower will wake her up?" he asked.

"I doubt it, seeming as she's only just gone back to bed."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see John freeze.

"Back to bed?" John asked, coming over, "Why, what was wrong."

"She wanted to check that I didn't hate her or want to send her away."

John nodded slowly, "Right…and she got that idea from?"

"She deduced it." Sherlock replied without any inflection.

John was quiet for a long time as he then sat in his chair and bent to take off his shoes.

"You sent her back to bed?"

Slowly Sherlock turned his head. "It's a school night."

Free from his shoes, John walked over and stood staring down at him. "Sherlock-"

"I told her I didn't hate her. She seemed perfectly fine after that." Despite his best efforts some of his incredulousness still leaked into his voice.

Had that really been all she wanted to know.

Sherlock could feel John's smile when he bent to place a kiss on his forehead, before taking himself off upstairs. Ten minutes later the shower started to run.

Perhaps it was a family trait; only asking for the strangest, most obvious things and taking the most obscure hidden meaning from the answer.

* * *

><p>Hope you all enjoyed.<p> 


	10. Part 1: Chapter Nine

Thank you all so much for reading this! It's the first time this fic's gone over a thousand reads in a day :)

Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

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><p>She was asleep; curled up into a little ball on the sofa with Mrs Hudson's blanket draped around her and slipping of her shoulders with every breath.<p>

Squatting beside her Sherlock carefully grasped the edge of the fabric and pulled it back into it's previous position, being careful not to touch Ava at all.

Still, he needed to get her upstairs somehow. John would be home soon and the cold weather usually made his shoulder act up. The last thing he needed to do was carry Ava up the stairs.

Which meant that somehow, someway, Sherlock was going to have to do it.

He'd avoided having too much physical contact with Ava. He'd never had any reason to interact with children before and had no idea what to do or how to carry her.

He hated not being able to make an educated guess.

When he finally reached out a hand to her she was warm. As warm as John usually was when Sherlock had to wake him in the middle of the night so the child in front of him would have no idea what was going on. There was something about the sleepy face of both John and Ava that made him hesitate when he reached for them.

Dismissing that, he slid his hands under her arms, pulling her up towards him. Still asleep, she reached for him, curling arms around his neck and resting a wild head of hair onto his shoulder. Instinctively she seemed to wrap around him with surprising ease.

Shifting her a little to make it more comfortable for himself, he allowed her to burrow into his neck and her fingers curled into his shirt.

Spotting the bear she always carried still on the sofa, he reached for it. John had told him that he'd bought the bear for Ava back when Harry had attempted to raise her and that Ava had hung onto it like it was made of gold ever since.

It was a soft and sensible looking bear with little dungarees and a shirt with a happy smile.

Very John-esque

Shaking himself, he managed to manoeuvre them into the kitchen and towards the stairs.

"Oh you're back," Mrs Hudson said coming down the stairs, "I was just getting her room ready."

Sherlock nodded as Ava snuggled into him even closer and passed Mrs Hudson on the stairs.

"I didn't realise the time otherwise I'd have sent her up." Mrs Hudson continued. In his arms Ava stirred at the conversation and he felt a momentary flutter of annoyance that Mrs Hudson had disturbed her sleep.

But Ava had wrapped her arms a little firmer around his neck.

"It's alright." Sherlock said, shifting Ava a little to avoid being choked. "I'll put her to bed."

"I can do it_"

For heaven's sakes it was hardly difficult, and he was half way up to the flat. Did the woman think he was suddenly going to drop Ava and wander off somewhere?

"It's perfectly fine Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said firmly and continued up the second flight of stairs, ignoring his landlady as she made some sort of awing noise.

His voice seemed to have woken Ava up even more as she squirmed in his arms. For a brief moment he thought she wanted to be put down but she just tried to look up at him.

"Not sleepy," she complained, her voice thick with tiredness.

Amused, Sherlock nodded, "I can see that," he replied solemnly and then smiled when he felt her screw up her nose at his comment.

"Where's Charlie-Bear?" she asked, yawning.

"I have him." Sherlock answered surprising himself at the softness of his tone as he manoeuvred them through the door, narrowly missing her feet catching the frame. "How was your film?" he asked as she seemed to be almost awake.

"Boring."

Chuckling in surprised delight, he found himself tilting his head a little so that his cheek lay on her hair. "My sympathies."

Ava turned pushed further into him, suddenly seeming a lot less alert. "Want Charlie-Bear," she whimpered.

Finding that he could deny her little, he switched he balanced her carefully until he manage to slide the bear into her hands. The bear was promptly tucked under her chin and against his chest.

* * *

><p>Somehow he'd ended up in his chair just staring down at her now that she was once again asleep. She'd fallen asleep in his arms as if it was the easiest and most natural thing to her.<p>

Child softness kept him from being able to see what she would look like in years to come. But she slept with utter contentment and a tiny little smile.

The one time he'd tried to put her down she'd whimpered and tightened her grip.

She wasn't even John's daughter and yet the moment he thought it something within him rebelled at the idea. Of course she was John's daughter, blood meant nothing.

Why couldn't he just put her to bed? John would be back soon and it would mean John would take her up and put her to bed. If Sherlock did it now, then he wouldn't have to wait for John to get back down. In fact he could just drag John into his bedroom…

But his arms wouldn't let go and his legs wouldn't move. And the overwhelming urge to just breathe her in was getting harder to resist.

It was utterly incapacitating.

And not at all comfortable in the chair.

* * *

><p>John stepped into the bedroom looking as if he was approaching a rare bird that he was determined not to startle.<p>

"Don't start," Sherlock muttered warningly.

But John's mouth had curved into that sweet smile Sherlock so rarely saw and he made his way over to them until he could kneel beside the bed.

"Your leg-" Sherlock started to say.

"Damn my leg," John said softly and without any menace. His head tilted to the side as he stroked Ava's hair gently and then reached up to kiss Sherlock briefly.

Then, with an amused wince, he dragged himself up to perch on the side of the bed. "Or perhaps not," he muttered, rubbing his thigh with a frown.

"Should I find a murderous cabbie again?" Sherlock asked watching the sluggish movements with a frown.

John glared at him, "Let's not go down that path again," he said eventually, "I have no wish to watch you attempt to gamble your life away."

Sherlock clicked his jaw, "I knew which pill was which."

"'Course you did," John nodded, "That was why you kept hounding Lestrade to tell you what the pills were and exactly where they'd been found."

Still bitter about that after all these years, Sherlock tightened his grip on Ava.

"Haven't managed to put her down then?" John asked.

"I said don't start," Sherlock huffed. Then seeing no other option, he relented. "She fell asleep while I carried her,"

John smiled slowly, "Terrifying isn't it. How much trust children can give."

Trust?

"I was a convenient object to fall asleep on," Sherlock dismissed.

John sighed and scooted up the bed so that he was sitting next to Sherlock, who had his back against the headboard.

"You know, if I told her that you'd hung the moon she'd believe me," John said after a while.

Uncomfortable Sherlock twisted to glare at John who was just looking at Ava, lost in thought. They sat in silence as John reached out and stroked a few stray strands of wispy hair out of Ava's face.

John smiled suddenly, "The first time I brought her home it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life," he said, determinedly not looking at Sherlock. "I just put the car seat in the middle of the room and sat opposite her, staring. And she just stared back at me." John shook his head, "And all I could think was if you were around, somewhere then you'd be trying to do a thousand and one experiments and I wouldn't have a chance to feel so…" John took a deep breath, and then seemed to shake himself.

"So?" Sherlock questioned, curious.

John seemed to struggle with himself. Not because he didn't want to say it but because he clearly wasn't sure of Sherlock's reaction.

And so Sherlock waited.

"Alone," John said eventually, the lines in his forehead wrinkling as he swallowed. "And when Harry…" he trailed off, seeming to want to swallow the words back; as if saying them made them even more true.

Guilt kicked up again. It stirred in his belly and roared through his head, his automatic reaction to snap and snarl to ignore it's presence. But he clenched his teeth and shoved his tongue into the bottom gum, staring ahead at the shelves.

The word wouldn't cross his lips again, and he wasn't even sure if John had heard the soft apology that had tumbled out the night when Sherlock had first seen John again.

Sherlock couldn't even decide if he hoped John had.

Next to him John sighed in frustration. "I wasn't trying to make you feel bad."

"You didn't," Sherlock muttered. Bad wasn't even close to accurate.

A glance at John showed a flash of temper, quickly hidden away and muted before he looked away, his breathing harsh and tense.

_Compromise_

Hating he uncomfortable sentiment that was pulsing through him, Sherlock looked away from John's stoic profile and found himself gazing down into Ava's sleeping face that was starting to crease and frown. Likely due to the fact that he was tensing up himself and she was feeling it.

Sherlock knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn't apologise, couldn't because, in truth, John feeling alone would always be better than John lying somewhere, bleeding and dead. If, even knowing all the facts, he was asked to do it all over again, he would without hesitation.

"I thought you would be married," Sherlock heard himself say, "happy and dull."

"It is possible to have one without the other," John snapped and then winced, "I didn't mean-"

"I…it seemed very likely that you would have no place for me," Sherlock continued, keeping his tone nonchalant. "No need."

"I always need you," John said softly.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"We'll leave this," John said sounding suddenly stronger, "Because this conversation…it won't go anywhere and we can't change it." He sounded like he was taking a ragged breath, "But that day…it was the worst thing I have ever…" his words tumbled and cracked between them, "And then the days after…the only time I managed to go into the flat was to get my gun."

Ice ran through Sherlock's veins at the implication of that.

"Everything was vibrant and fast and real when I was with you. And then you were gone and the only reason I got up was because my sister had ruined her life again." John stared at Ava. "She's my light at the end of the tunnel, my reason for going on." John smiled, "But you're the only thing that gives my life colour."

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced at John who was watching him with something like wry amusement

"What?" he asked, confused at the sudden change.

"I just…as I said it I looked at you…" John was staring to properly grin now.

Sherlock glanced down at his white shirt and black suit and snorted.

* * *

><p>They sat next to each other, touching now, Ava still asleep in Sherlock's lap and John's head resting against Sherlock's shoulder.<p>

"Where's the gun now?"

John sighed, "I gave it to Lestrade."

"When?"

"When Harry took Ava back,"

When he'd been worried he might use it again then, Sherlock thought, his hand on John's fingers, even as his shoulder started to ache from the unusual position he was in.

"What I said…what I started to say," John begun, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant, "Was that you're doing really well with her."

"How was that what you were trying to say?" Sherlock asked, craning his neck to try and see John's face.

John pulled back and winced, the position clearly playing havoc on his shoulder, "I was trying not to be obvious about it."

Sherlock considered that for a moment, "You certainly accomplished that,"

John nodded, "Only took me seven years,"

Seven years. A somewhat terrifying amount of time.

Picking the lesser of two evils, Sherlock focused back to the original conversation. "I assume you mean you're impressed I haven't swapped her for nitrogen."

Grinning John shook his head, "Please, if you were going to swap her for something, it would at least be something interesting." The amusement faded slightly, "I meant that she enjoys spending time with you. She really does think you know the answer to everything."

Huffing Sherlock glared at John, "Let me guess, as long as it isn't the solar system." He muttered sarcastically, pre-empting the usual barb.

John's eyes lit up, "I wasn't even thinking about that-"

In his arms he could feel Ava's breathing become less even.

"-But she's much happier now. We both are," John started to stroke Ava's hair as he stared at Sherlock pointedly.

"You trust me with this?" Sherlock asked carefully.

"Yes," John said simply.

""You do understand that I am not equipped to deal with this?" Sherlock pointed out, watching as John glanced at the clock and frowned, "I had the child in tears yesterday." He added.

John sighed as he wriggled away and off the bed, "And yet she's not suffering from any severe mental trauma?" he asked mockingly. "Sherlock, she's five. Five year olds cry over anything. I had one in today who cried because they couldn't remember which toe it was they said was hurting."

Sherlock glanced down at Ava, sure that she would never do that. And her breathing was odd, as if she were holding her breath.

Feeling a slight concern that perhaps she was having a bad dream, he placed his chin on her hair, trying to relax himself in case it was his tension causing her troubled sleep. "She asked me why I hated her." He said as John stretched causing his back to crack.

"And I imagine you now want to argue that she's the only child to worry about a step-parents affection." John replied, sounding utterly unconcerned at the idea.

Step-parent?

"I am not her step-parent though." Sherlock pointed out carefully.

But John didn't seem upset at the correction, or even particularly bothered at the label, ""Fine...father's new gay partner." He replied mockingly with a yawn as he leaned on the bed to switch on the side light.

"Don't be facetious." Sherlock muttered as Ava barely reacted to the change of brightness.

"Can you take my point?" John asked, standing up again. "It's a normal reaction."

She was too still, too tense.

"Her teachers an idiot," he said and watched John's brows draw together at the non-sequester.

Ava stiffened at that.

She was awake.

And surprisingly good at faking sleep.

"You think everyone's an idiot." John said after shooting him an odd look.

"You should allow me to put her in a better school." Sherlock replied trying to gauge her reaction. Watching her face he could see her frown a little.

She was enjoying it then. No secrets to hide at the new school it seemed.

"I thought that was what we did?" John somehow managed to look baffled and suspicious at the same time.

Mind racing Sherlock looked down again, "I'm offering to pay for_"

But John cut him off before he could finish and see Ava's reaction. "I know." John huffed, "Take the hint."

John seemed firmly against the idea of private schooling. Interesting.

"Can I ask why not?" he asked, this time watching John instead.

"Because she's fine where she is." John replied evenly,

Fine? Sherlock glared. "I don't want her to settle for fine." he snapped.

"And I don't want her to feel she has to live up to some ridiculously high Holmesian expectation." John snapped back as he got to the door. "Just...she's fine where she is for now. At the end of the school year we'll talk about it."

That was eight months away. And as if he would let Mycroft's snobbery affect Ava. Looking down he could see her little face screwing up in confusion. As if they had life of their own, his fingers started to stroke her cheek softly, watching as she relaxed a little again. "That's ages away." He said eventually.

"So says the man who couldn't understand why I was upset about him vanishing into thin air for five years." John said. Surprised at the lack of anger in his tone, Sherlock looked over to John who was coming closer again.

"I understood it; I simply chose not to let it stand in the way of things." Sherlock muttered, watching his face closely.

John actually smiled.

And it felt like stepping out of purgatory.

God knew what expression passed over his face because John smiled and leaned over, his hand ghosting through Sherlock's hair and mouth pressing the softest kiss against Sherlock's lips.

"Tea?"

He really was forgiven then.

It was tempting. But to have tea would mean either revealing Ava was awake or not talking to her at all. And knowing John, he would panic at the idea that Ava had even heard a snippet of that conversation.

"I'm fine," he replied.

John nodded and took one last look at the pair of them before making his way out of the room and into the kitchen.

When Sherlock was sure that he couldn't hear, Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Do you always spy on us when you're meant to be asleep?" he asked calmly.

To her credit she didn't try to pretend ignorance as many would have done but instead looked up at him with a mischievous expression. "No. Just when you talk about me." She replied, sounding very much awake. "Is that ok?"

It was understandable.

Sherlock sighed, "I suppose so. Don't tell your father though. He'll be paranoid for months otherwise."

Ava nodded solemnly, "I don't like worrying him," she confessed, as if it were a great secret.

His arm numb from where he'd been holding her, he shifted and she pulled away; moving until she was sat opposite him with crossed legs.

She didn't appear scared or concerned, so it was doubtful she'd heard much of the conversation. He was relatively sure he would have noticed any unusual behaviour, distracted though he was.

"So?" he asked copying her position. "Any thoughts?"

"Mrs Parker isn't an idiot." She huffed, jaw jutting out.

If that was the most concerning thing then it seemed unlikely she'd heard anything damaging.

"She made our Christmas tree look pretty," Ava added, as if that was a worthwhile credential.

"Wonderful," he said, losing some interest, instead working out how to explain Ava's sudden wakefulness to John.

"It's pink and red and gold and green and silver-" she started to rattle off.

Sherlock froze at the sudden image of that many colours in the flat. "No."

Ava's brow furrowed in confusion, "Yes it is," she sulked. "I saw it yesterday. You haven't."

"No…I meant you are not having a tree like that here."

Ava's eyes lit up at the challenge. "Yes I am; Daddy said I could."

Eyeing up the hallway Sherlock glanced back at Ava.

"Have you ever heard of the word compromise?" he asked.

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><p>Wooo! We're now caught up to Chapter Two of "Paved with Love"! This fic is going to be sooo long, sigh!<p> 


	11. Part 1: Chapter Ten

**2****0****th**** December**

Christmas music, god help him, blared out from upstairs as he walked into the flat. Ava and John were no-where to be seen but the living area was a mess. The tree (that was mercifully just silver with the exception of the one pink bauble he'd allowed Ava) stood in the corner with presents underneath while snippets of wrapping paper littered the floor and cello tape hung off the edge of the desk and the arm of his chair. A half full cup of tea sat on the side table and three or four plastic bags from different shops were still scattered about.

Perhaps this was how John felt when he walked in to find an unfinished experiment scattered over the table with half empty beakers and sticky test tubes.

Eyeing the sight with distaste, Sherlock turned to place his newest item in the fridge in the bottom drawer. The dead bird had been found close to the water source used by the victim in Lestrade's cold case.

As Sherlock shut the door he was faced with a bundle of excited energy in the form of Ava Watson, holding up a plate of mince-pies.

Home-made, wonky mince pies.

"You missed lunch." Ava stated, as if that explained something.

Sherlock flickered his eyes across the plate again. With a very deep sigh, hating how well she could corner him, he plucked out the smallest, most even and un-burnt one possible.

Ava beamed and watched.

John was no-where in sight, probably having already made a strategic retreat from the baking. Throwing a hateful look at the ceiling where John was probably safe, Sherlock bit into the pie.

And wished he'd thrown the whole thing in his mouth because now, somehow, he had to eat the rest of it knowing how foul it tasted.

Trying to swallow the gritty texture he stared at the remains and glanced down at Ava who looked desperately excited to hear his review.

The rest of the pie followed quickly and somehow he managed to swallow it all down.

"Well?" She asked hopefully.

"Have you had one yet?" he asked, disliking the idea of not telling her the truth but not at all sure how to go about it.

Ava shook her head and screwed up her nose, "I don't like mince pies."

"Nor do I." Sherlock replied, allowing the rest of the sentence to remain unsaid.

Ava threw him a confused look, "Why did you eat it then?" And, with a roll of her eyes as if he were the difficult one she shrugged and put the plate on the table.

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><p>While Ava gathered up the paper singing to herself off tune and seeming to somehow create some bizarre game out of the tidy up, Sherlock made his way upstairs.<p>

"Did you get caught by the mince pies?" John asked as Sherlock opened the door. "Mrs Hudson can't figure out how she managed to make them that bad." John threw him a grin as he bit down on the cello-tape to snap it, "I'll chuck 'em out once she's gone to bed."

It was an odd sight; the former soldier sitting on the little pink and purple bed, surrounded by empty rolls of Christmas paper and scraps of ribbon and coloured paper. Amused, Sherlock picked up a strand of silver ribbon and let it thread through his fingers.

"Did you get what you needed?" John asked, sticking the paper closed over the present and folding the edges with quick practiced moves.

"When did you learn how to wrap?" Sherlock asked, thinking of the cello-tape covered present he'd been given years ago.

John grinned as he continued, "I can wrap boxes. Everything I buy either comes in a box or can go in a box."

"And this?" Sherlock indicated the ribbon in his hands.

"If I imagine it's a rope then I'm fine with it," John muttered, looking a bit self-conscious now as he took the ribbon. "Don't worry, I'll use yesterday's newspaper to wrap yours. Nothing festive, I promise."

Sherlock brushed a thumb under John's chin and kissed him.

Because he could.

"Leave the mince pies," Sherlock said as they broke away. "Mycroft might pay a visit."

John smiled even as he tried to look disapproving. "That's cruel, even for you."

Sherlock sniffed dismissively. "He'll deserve it."

* * *

><p>John had thankfully simply signed Sherlock's name alongside his own to most of the presents he'd bought for Ava.<p>

It still meant he needed to get something for John. He'd even managed to walk around the corner to Oxford Street before staring in undisguised disgust at the amount of people surging the shops and turning away again.

Besides John wasn't exactly materialistic. Buying him a life supply of milk would probably content him.

But still Sherlock was relatively sure that there needed to be some gesture. Some indication of his changed intentions for their first Christmas together.

"What?" John asked warily as Ava coloured in on the floor after dinner.

Sherlock raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"You've been looking at me all day," John said briefly glancing at Ava. "As if I'm a spare part you're not quite too sure what to do with."

Glancing at the laptop on his knee Sherlock pursed his lips, "No reason." He said focusing on the news report of the outcome of the case. Thankfully his name wasn't anywhere in it.

"That was honest," John muttered pointedly.

"It's Christmas." Sherlock hissed, "You aren't meant to be honest at Christmas."

John screwed his nose up and grinned, "So what second hand gifts were you planning on passing off this year?" he asked.

"Why was there something you wanted?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his tone as far from genuinely curious as he could.

"Nope," John took a sip of tea. "Not really."

* * *

><p><strong>21<strong>**st**** December**

Christmas cards.

Why hadn't he remembered Christmas cards? Yet another previously useless piece of information that had to be restored.

Truly they were just a waste of paper. Who needed the things when texts allowed you to send messages that were far cheaper and quicker?

And severely cut down on the amount of pathetically twee poems that were created just for cards.

Did he need to get Ava and John a card? Could he get them one together or did they have to be separate?

Could he even get joint cards for…new partner and new partners child?

Likely the card makers would have rephrased it into something far more sentimental than that.

He'd left the pair of them hanging the cards onto string that was draped around the edges of the flat walls. Or rather John was balancing precariously on the arm of a chair while Ava stared at him enviously and sulked.

He hated Christmas.

* * *

><p>"What would you buy John for a present?" Sherlock asked Lestrade as he handed over his notes.<p>

Lestrade squinted in confusion but then seemed to accept it as yet another one of Sherlock's quirks. "A new fridge?" he offered, "A new flatmate?"

"Very droll," Sherlock snapped, feeling ridiculous for even asking.

With a deep sigh Lestrade rubbed at his forehead. "I don't know Sherlock. A break."

"I'm not that bad-"

"No," Lestrade refocused on him, "I meant he's been looking after Ava on his own for years. He might enjoy a free weekend or you babysitting," Lestrade paused, "Or you finding a babysitter."

"Babysitting?" Sherlock asked. "Why would he need a babysitter?"

Lestrade shuffled his papers, "Kids usually kill a romantic mood. I doubt he's had a date in ages."

Date?

Something must have passed across his face because Lestrade paused in what he was doing.

"What?"

"That's hardly my area," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade's face was a picture.

"You are aware you don't actually need to accompany him on dates?" Lestrade snapped. "He's a grown man; he doesn't need you to hold his hand."

It was on the tip of his tongue to snap back. To point out that even Sherlock, with his limited interest in dating, knew that the two people had to both be present for the date to actually occur. But John and Lestrade were friends and Lestrade seemed to have no clue that the relationship between him and John had changed.

Which begged the question as to why John hadn't told him?

* * *

><p>When he rentered the flat, armed with cards (how was it that Clintons managed to create cards for pets but not to new partner and child?) it was quiet and empty.<p>

Sherlock paused on the stairs with something approaching dread.

It was five which meant Ava and John should be sitting down to eat or at least preparing dinner. John seemed to despise silence at the moment and so would have the television on or music blaring out. John's finances weren't built up enough that the man would be comfortable splashing out on a meal and he hadn't gained enough patience over the years to be willing to go to a crowded fast food restaurant just for the sake of it.

Slowly Sherlock pushed the door to the kitchen open.

They hadn't finished the cards. In fact there was still an empty strand of string hanging down and a pile of cards on the floor showing where John had been in the middle of threading it. The pile that he'd allowed them to open (probably all from Mycroft and probably all reminding him of various Christmas duties he'd neglected over the years) was spread around the sofa in a haphazard fashion that could only mean Ava had gotten most of the way through.

There was no sign of an injury. Ava's trainers were gone and so was John's jacket.

John didn't answer his phone. Even when Sherlock dialled non-stop for five minutes.

Sheer panic had him dialling Lestrade before his brain caught up.

"What now?" Lestrade asked sounding tired. "I don't care if you think the mother-"

"They aren't here," Sherlock snapped into the phone.

"Who aren't where?" Lestrade asked in the same patronising tone one would use with a stroppy child.

"John and Ava." Sherlock glanced around at again and the suddenly stopped projects.

"Maybe they're out," Lestrade suggested sounding annoyed.

"For gods sakes, do you really think I'd phone if they were just out?" Sherlock snarled. "They left suddenly and John isn't answering."

"Maybe there was an emergency," Lestrade yawned. "A friend in need-"

"Like who?" Sherlock demanded. "And John wouldn't take Ava with him if that was the case."

Lestrade was silent for a moment, "You're serious?" he asked, suddenly sounding far more alert.

"Of course I'm serious,"

"I'll make some calls," Lestrade said sounding as if he was finally sitting up. "I'll try calling John as well and-"

Not bothering to dignify that with a response Sherlock slammed his thumb on the screen to end the call and dialled Mycroft instead.

"Please tell me this call has nothing to do with the time of the year. It's sickening-"

"Where is John?" Sherlock snarled, ignoring his brother's opinion on the one thing they actually agreed on.

Mycroft sighed. "The security is across the street from you. It would be far easier for you to get your backside into gear and walk across the road. I am busy."

Ending that call in much the same way, Sherlock stormed out of the room intending to march down the stairs.

Instead, something on the stairs to the other floor caught his eye.

A sock.

Reaching over he plucked it from where it hung and studied it. One of John's basic, boring socks.

Calmer he turned and walked up to their room.

John had packed.

Strangely that didn't make his panic go away.

* * *

><p>Why?<p>

There was a conclusion starting to form, but one that was based on fear and doubt rather than logical thinking. The idea that John had just walked out and taken Ava with him was preposterous.

For one the man had no-where to go and couldn't afford to go anywhere else at the moment. For another John had more invested in the relationship than Sherlock had.

He was allowing that momentary fear and confusion when he'd realised Lestrade knew nothing about his and John's relationship, to overtake his reasoning.

John knew Sherlock. He knew Sherlock didn't do Christmas or presents or cards. He hadn't been bothered by it yesterday.

But the fact remained that John had left and wasn't answering the phone.

What had changed?

The cards.

Sherlock whirled into the living area and scooped up the pile that had been his cards, throwing each of Mycroft's snippy remarks to the floor along with the odd genuine one from Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and a few others.

Why they bothered he had no idea.

Until he saw it.

Elegant, the picture was almost rude but tasteful. And it was scented.

He didn't need to open the card to know who'd sent it.

Irene Adler was still a royal pain.

* * *

><p>John's insecurity could be dealt with later. As it was he'd done the best possible thing at the moment.<p>

Left.

It took less than three texts to find out where she was. Clearly she wanted to be found, which was a cause for concern in itself. The last time he'd dealt with the woman she'd been backed into a corner and playing for her life.

The idea of facing her when she was in control was intriguing.

It would probably be best not to mention that to John straight away.

* * *

><p>The hotel was one that catered exclusively for those who could pay for a discrete service. The dining room was bright and overly ornate as he stepped to the doors.<p>

The maître de nodded at him and started walking towards a table.

The years had been good to Irene. She sat; hair elegantly coiled and lips a sharp ruby red in a laced black dress that clung to her like a second skin. She watched him over the edge of her wine glass as she took a sip.

"Mr Holmes," her mouth curled upwards looking pleased, "How pleasant to see you again,"

The maître de had pulled one of the chairs out. Glancing at the other empty place setting Sherlock sat.

"Finally," she smiled with a widening smirk of her eyes, "Now, what shall we order for dinner?"

"When is he joining us?" he asked picking the menu and browsing calmly. He allowed his eyes to flicker up to her face to catch her momentary surprise.

"Soon," she covered the expression well. "I did ask for a chance to reacquaint myself before we discussed business."

"How was hiding for your life?" he asked in a tone that indicated he really didn't care.

"Exhilarating!" She purred, "And how was being dead?"

"Dull," he flickered the word out with a sneer. Reaching out he plucked the already poured glass of wine and took a sip. "I would have thought you would have learned your lesson by now."

"My lesson?" she sat back amused.

"Of playing games that are beyond you. You lost spectacularly last time."

It still riled her; the slight firming of her mouth was as obvious as a tantrum.

"Well Mr Holmes I now have nothing to lose. It's much easier to play that way," she softened her expression in mock sympathy, "Not that you would know." Turning the menu page she studied it intently. "How is John?"

Sherlock flickered his eyes over the page in front him. "Fine."

"Gay yet?" she asked smirking.

Matching her stare for stare he placed the wine glass back on the pristine tablecloth, "He's gotten further than you did."

Her sudden intake of breath was pleasing.

"This is intriguing," she said after a sip to recover, "I've never had you in full battle mode before." She added with a suggestive lilt.

In the reflection of the glass he could see the maître de coming back over, a smaller figure following, "You don't warrant it." His voice lashed out, "And you're a fool for walking into this again."

With that he turned and waved his hand imperiously at the last seat at their table. "Do sit down Jim."

Moriarty didn't seem at all surprised, "How kind of you," he smiled as he sat and shifted in the chair to get comfortable. "Doesn't this all look wonderful?" he asked gleefully.

The exact same face he'd made in the CCTV footage when he'd had the meeting with John.

Sherlock flickered his eyes down to the knife that had been laid in a neat line on the left of his setting. Not one of them was sharp enough to easily jam into him.

Pity.

"How's the family?" Moriarty asked looking for all the world as if they were work colleagues having a Christmas meal.

Which, in some ways, Sherlock supposed they were.

"We've done that," Sherlock replied, "You were late."

Moriarty pulled an almost embarrassed face. "Oh dear, I'm sure the wonderful Miss Adler will fill me in."

A flicker in Irene's direction saw her watching Sherlock over her menu.

Nothing to lose? That was probably the greatest lie he'd ever heard fall past her lips. Moriaarty had something on her...

"Then how's big brother?" Moriarty asked his demeanour changing suddenly and snapping Sherlock's attention back, "Still giving out information like it's water?"

Clenching his jaw Sherlock covered it with another sip. "I told you, we covered that."

But Irene pouted, "No, actually all we talked about was Dr Watson. But how sweet to hear you confess your feeling for him."

He needed to focus.

"Well Sherlock does like his dull little pets," Moriarty complained and then caught the waiter's eye. Catching Sherlock's expression he tutted, "I do hope you aren't planning on losing your temper," he frowned disapprovingly, "See the owner and the manager here, well-

"I know what they like," Irene smoothly took up the point with a suggestive smile as she greeted the waiter.

"And there are lots of friendly faces," Moriarty made a show of looking around. "Now, ladies first."

* * *

><p>"Dessert?" Moriarty asked.<p>

Sherlock leaned back to allow the waiter to clear his main dish.

"After all, every decision is made over dessert and coffee." Moriarty added as the waiters left.

They'd traded verbal volleys for the past hour, and Sherlock had gleaned quite a bit about Moriarty's dealings.

He had a feeling he was meant to.

"Clearly you want something," Sherlock took a sip of water to clear the rich food from his mouth.

Moriarty pulled a pouty face and sighed in disappointment, "No dessert then." He shook his head. "Well. I want you back."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I mean even when I thought were dead I still had you to play against. Life just hasn't been the same these past few months. And it was getting exciting; if big brother hadn't stuck his nose in we might not be having this conversation at all." Moriarty hissed at the possibilities with a smile. "This little experiment of yours, playing pet detective for your inspector and happy families with the doctor. It irritates me." The last sentence was suddenly spoken in a cold tone. "Deeply irritates me." He sat forward eyes gleaming, "and, while I hate repeating myself Sherlock, don't forget that I know exactly how to pull your strings and make you play."

Irene watched him through lowered lashes, "After all, I could make the doctor leave the house with just a sentence." She added nonchalantly.

Sherlock glanced between them and then slowly cast his gaze around the room until he met Moran's eyes without expression.

Wiping his mouth he tossed the napkin on the table and stood.

"I do hope you were listening to my hints," Moriarty smiled up at him, "I just can't remember which ones were true." He pulled a worried face. "Oops."

Sherlock stared down at him and then bent to his ear.

"Be careful with this game. If you pull my "strings" too hard I'll strangle you with them."

Moriarty pulled back so they could stare at each other. "You won't let it get to that stage," he crowed, "I could make you into the next Jack the Ripper and you'd follow willingly as long as I didn't hurt dear Doctor Watson."

Sherlock shook his head, "You have such limited ideas about hurt." He hissed, "And if I ever discover you tormenting him like that again I will not give a damn about rules and consequences. I told you once I would shake your hand in hell and if you push me I will show you just how much I meant it."

Moriarty stared up at him as a smile started to spread on his face. "Welcome back."

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't stop until he got back inside the flat.<p>

He had about five minutes before Mycroft showed up.

Resting his forehead against the entrance door to the flat, hidden from the window by the kitchen dividers he just breathed.

Moriarty still underestimated John.

Moriarty had dismissed Ava.

Sherlock breathed out his relief and let his nails scrape against the flecking paint of the door as he tried to calm the storm inside of him.

Regardless of her motives, he should have let Irene Adler die when he had the chance.

* * *

><p>By the time Mycroft walked through the door, Sherlock was sitting with a book as calm as you please.<p>

"What were you thinking?" Mycroft sneered standing in the door way and shaking, as if it was taking everything he had not to hit Sherlock.

"When? When I let Miss Adler live or when I went to have dinner tonight?" Sherlock asked politely.

Mycroft's control broke and he stormed into the room. Laying his book on his knees Sherlock turned his face to his brother and accepted the backhand with a sigh. Staring off to the side he clamped his mouth shut.

"You do not go near them," Mycroft's voice was strained as he scrambled for control again. "Do you hear me Sherlock? You do not go near them. Either one of them again."

Slowly Sherlock turned his head back and lifted his gaze defiantly to Mycroft's. "Sentiment dear brother?" he asked mockingly.

"You never have been able to play to win." Mycroft drew back with a shake of his head, "It's always to show you're the cleverest player. James Moriarty doesn't play to win or to show off; he pays to destroy his opponents. And a blind man would know how to ruin you."

"Or a consulting criminal who knows how to ask you the right questions." Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft shook his head, "He knows your heart Sherlock," at that Mycroft seemed to deflate, "everyone knows your heart."

"Then it would seem you storming in with your histrionics was pointless," Sherlock picked the book up again. "There is nothing to be done by withdrawing now."

Mycroft was silent for an age. "They're in Euston." He said eventually.

"I know." Sherlock stared at the page without seeing it.

"They're safe. I've had people watching them since your call earlier."

Sherlock nodded, "I assumed you had."

* * *

><p>So...yeah. Not what I orginally planned but there you are! I've had a rather brilliant day today so I thought I'd share the joy...or the building drama...!<p> 


	12. Part 1: Chapter Eleven

Right - well I was having a right sulk because ff decided not to send me anything for days! So there i was, convinced hardly anyone was caring that the new chapter had gone up and then bang! I go to get something off my email in the middle of a lesson and have to trawl through the sudden wave that ff decided to finally send me! I am sorry if i haven't got to you yet if you reviewed but thank you and thank you to all the favouriters and alerters :)

I would say my poor students were left to do nothing for five minutes but as half the class have irritated me beyond belief today I won't say that at all!

Anyhooo - then I managed to sort out this mess of a chapter so here it is :)

Rant over, I promise!

* * *

><p>WARNINGS: Discussions of childhoods which aren't overly happy and smut! (Was that not what you guys where expecting?)<p>

* * *

><p>In the morning Sherlock left the flat having sat in thought most of the night.<p>

He needed to speak to John.

It was pathetically easy to get into the hotel. He even managed to spot one of Mycroft's people giving him a sour look as Sherlock walked up the stairs.

He'd picked up the extra room key and swiped the door easily; trying to work out how many attempts it had taken John to get the card to work.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn tightly and so thick that they managed to keep the sun out with ease. On the bed Ava sat having rearranged the blankets to cover her feet while John slept on beside her, oblivious to the fact that Ava had turned the television on.

He looked as if he'd been awake most of the night too.

Slowly Sherlock closed the door behind him and then stood against it as if he could barricade the pair inside from the world. Ava turned her head and watched him with wide, confused eyes as the television whispered so quietly he was amazed she could even hear it.

"The police tell people off when they break into houses." Ava said solemnly curling her arms around her knees.

"This isn't a house." Sherlock muttered, glancing at John who looked as if he were on the verge of waking up.

"I'm not sure that matters." Ava replied seeming thoughtful.

At her tone Sherlock glanced back over at her, noting the way she was curling on the bed and almost shivering. "I'm sure you're right," he said after a moment. "But the police also tell people off who leave where they live all of a sudden."

"No they don't," Ava said, as if she were the authority on police procedures.

"They do. It's called wasting police time," Sherlock said, thinking of Lestrade's angry phone call a few hours ago when Sherlock suddenly remembered that he'd called him yesterday and had forgotten to update him.

"Daddy's really mad with you."

He was about to be more so Sherlock thought bitterly. Mycroft's reaction had been bad enough.

Still it might help if Ava had some clue as to exactly why John was in such a snit over Irene Adler of all people. There had been an indication a few weeks ago that John had some issue with the woman that went far beyond Sherlock's momentary fascination with her.

"Why?"

Ava shrugged and all of Sherlock's attempts at patience evaporated.

"I have told you time and time again, that is not an acceptable answer." he snarled, his voice raising in frustration.

Ava stared at him in wide eyed horror, lip trembling and eyes starting to fill. Sherlock clenched his fists at the look she was giving him and looked up and away.

Into John's fuming gaze.

John pulled Ava into his arms and let her bury herself into him lifting the covers so she was tucked away from Sherlock's view.

It just annoyed Sherlock even more.

John had been tucked in a hotel room watching bad TV and talking to Ava. Sherlock had been at dinner with a psychopath and a dominatrix, surrounded by Moriarty's lackeys, battling with his wits to keep them safe.

His temper fractured even further.

"Go away," John glared at him, "I'll talk to you later."

He would not be dismissed like a child.

"We will talk now_" Sherlock started to hiss.

"No." John levelled his chin at Sherlock. "This is not the time or the place Sherlock."

Despite the fact that his temper was still on a razors edge, despite the fact that he wanted to scream in frustration now that he could lower his guard, what passed his lips wasn't the droll comeback he'd intended.

"You left. I came back and you weren't there."

Had he just said that? From John's expression it was hard to tell out of the pair of them who'd been more surprised by those words.

Sherlock could feel the weight of John's gaze as it passed over him and saw the worry start to set in.

Throwing his hand up in frustration he turned to the door again, intending to leave.

"I'll meet you in two hours," John called after him sounding calmer. "Let me get her up and then I'll take her to Mrs Hudson." He waited until Sherlock turned to face him. "We can talk afterwards."

Sherlock turned back; ready to snap that he wasn't some patient John could wander over to talk to every so often. His darkening expression must have been clear in the half light of the room because John's softer expression vanished.

"Sherlock," John snapped, "Not now. You're frightening her."

Ava hadn't so much as peeked in his direction and John looked exhausted.

This whole exercise had been a terrible idea from start to finish.

He left before John could say anything else.

* * *

><p>Five hours later John found him at Angelo's.<p>

"Didn't know they opened at this time," John commented as he sat opposite Sherlock at a table that was far from the window and closer to the empty kitchen.

"They don't," Sherlock traced the edge of his coffee cup with his eyes, not allowing himself to fidget. "I assume I have the proprietor to thank for your presence?"

John winced, "Mycroft."

Unsurprised Sherlock nodded. "He never can keep out of it."

John took a deep breath.

"It's fine." Sherlock said, ignoring the brief flash of the first time they'd ever had a conversation at the restaurant. "You were right it seems."

"Sorry?" John's furrowed his forehead, "I'm not-"

"This," Sherlock waved a hand between the pair of them, "You were right. I should have left it alone."

John's eyes narrowed and he sat back. "Really?"

"Yes. " Sherlock sniffed, "Perhaps Mycroft can reimburse you for your troubles-"

"Sherlock," John cut across him in a no nonsense tone and surprisingly ignoring the insulting implication of Sherlock's words, "Do you honestly think Mycroft didn't tell me what you did last night?"

"God sakes," Sherlock muttered glaring at the table.

"Yeah," John agreed looking unimpressed. "It was an…interesting chat."

From the look on John's face it was clear that Mycroft has been on the receiving end of the fury that Sherlock had managed to dodge.

That was annoying. He had hoped to be able to use it. But if there was one thing that Sherlock prided himself on it was knowing how to get a reaction.

"Well go on then, what do you want to whine about first?"

"Mycroft told me she was dead." John seemed to somehow still manage to ignore him. "In fact he told me it would have taken Sherlock Holmes to have fooled him and saved her."

Tilting his head to the side Sherlock considered John, "That isn't what you told me."

"No. Mycroft gave me a choice." John crossed his arms, "I chose to spare your feelings."

"I've told you before I do not-"

"Then explain to me why you travelled half way around the world to save her like some damsel in distress when it was you who condemned her in the first place?" John asked utterly calm.

It was infuriating how little temper was showing. And how much hurt could be seen through John's careful tone. His voice wavered just a little as he started to talk and the pads of his fingers were pressed hard into the tablecloth.

It was so much easier to deal with John when he was angry.

"I made a deduction," Sherlock said watching John carefully.

John raised his hands in supplication, "And?"

"I owed her," God how he still hated those words.

John scrubbed his face with his hand. "Sherlock…I am not running on much patience today, would you just answer the damned question." His voice turned waspish as he spoke.

"She called when we were at the pool," Sherlock stared at the door far behind John. "That phone call saved our lives."

"You can't possibly know it was her," John said after a moment.

"I can. And I could look through her call history," Sherlock took a sip of the almost cold coffee.

"So you owed her your life-"

"No, not _my_ life," Sherlock snapped looking at John finally.

John closed his eyes and seemed to deflate slightly. Slowly he leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, staring at the tablecloth sliding his head back up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"What were you thinking?" he asked quietly. "Walking in there like that last night?"

"That Moriarty doesn't do subtle for long. It seemed easier to go along with it rather than test his patience."

"You don't do easy." John stated firmly.

Sherlock paused, "I said easier," he snapped, " Not easy."

"Then tell me-"

"No." Sherlock stood imperiously, "No. We're done."

* * *

><p>Lestrade's call was a welcome distraction as Sherlock stormed down the street and ignored the sleek black car that was waiting round the corner.<p>

* * *

><p>"Long time no see!" Lestrade's voice rung out in genuine pleasure.<p>

Sherlock raised his eyes from the wrist of the elderly man in front of him and looked up at Donovan's face.

John.

"How's that little girl of yours?"

"This is a crime scene not a social club!" Sherlock snapped swapping his gaze to the scarred knuckles in front of him.

He didn't get to hear the answer because of all the noise behind him. Sherlock managed to resist for seventeen seconds before he turned to glance over.

Lestrade had raised the police lines for John who ducked under with ease and laughed at something Lestrade said. They were clearly at ease with each other so why hadn't John…

Sherlock cut that thought off quickly. It sounded far too melodramatic to be pondered upon.

Within minutes John had knelt opposite him.

"So?" John asked, sounding for all the world as if the past five and a half years hadn't happened. And certainly as if the events of the past 24 hours had just passed him by. "Any ideas?"

"I didn't invite you along." Sherlock snapped.

"I noticed." John replied evenly, "You also didn't say I couldn't come."

Sherlock glared up at him, "I wasn't aware I needed to give exacting instructions during our every conversation."

Infuriatingly, John just smiled.

Perturbed, Sherlock refocused on the hands in front of him. The pale strip that denoted a missing ring, the bruised wrist telling the story of a missing watch, yet his money hadn't been missing-

"Repeated strangulation?" John asked pointing a hand at the neck.

Sherlock glared at him, "You're interrupting the process."

"So I can have hints, but I can't point things out?"

"I told you." Sherlock said carefully, "You were right. We shouldn't pursue this."

"And you told me I was being a coward."

Coward.

Coward?

There were too many people around. But with a snarl, Sherlock stood, grabbing John's arm as he did so and practically hauling him to his feet and then propelling them both around the corner.

Lestrade shouted something but John made a movement that must have deterred the detectives. Only when they were out of sight did John twist in his grasp and make Sherlock release him. Then John stood; legs slightly apart and firm with his arms folded.

Demanding.

"What did he say to you?" John asked, jaw set in determination.

He did not want this conversation. There was nothing in the world that he wanted less than to have this conversation.

Sherlock turned to return to the crime scene.

"I will not hesitate to follow you out and continue this conversation." John threatened calmly.

Even the briefest glance at John revealed he wasn't bluffing.

Closing his eyes Sherlock took a moment. Unfortunately, with Mycroft whispering in John's ear, there was little room to manoeuvre out of this.

So Sherlock stared at John's shoes, hastily laced up from the morning and the muddy edges of his jeans.

"He's bored."

John's leg twitched.

"Bored?" he asked sounding nervous.

Sherlock nodded slowly, "He's playing without an opponent."

"Sherlock-"

"You said," Sherlock pulled his eyes up suddenly, standing taller and stronger. "You said that you couldn't watch me go down that path again."

John took a deep calming breath. "Is that what I said?" he asked taking a step closer.

"Yes." Sherlock's memory was far better than John's.

"When I gave you my one condition, is that what I asked for?" John's mouth was tight with annoyance.

_Full partnership._

"You did not mean-"

"Yes," John nodded once, "I did."

Oh.

Oh.

Three words should not have had such an effect. Three words should not make his knees feel unsteady and suddenly make him feel as if he had just started to breathe again.

"What about Ava-"

John took a deep breath and looked away for a moment as if struggling and then back.

"It's what you've said all along isn't it. Moriarty knows how to get to you. Hiding how we feel…it will only give him an opening."

Swallowing tightly Sherlock watched John carefully. "He's dismissed her entirely. It's you he will focus on."

"It's better that way."

It wasn't. But then the other option was unpleasant as well.

John took a step towards him, almost touching. "Sherlock-" he begun softly, reaching up.

"Not here," Sherlock warned, trying to get his thoughts in order.

John accepted that without complaint or question. "Do you want me to stay here?" he asked, leaning back a little to let the slither of light between them widen.

There was only one acceptable answer to that.

* * *

><p>Having John on a case while their relationship was still in this early, fragile stage was distracting. Terribly and annoyingly distracting.<p>

Especially after John's admission.

Sherlock was hyper aware of where he was at all times. His mind, while trying to work the puzzle out, was still cataloguing the smiles that John gave, the way his face would crease in happiness or confusion and the different tones he used for the various detectives on the crime scene.

It was gratifying to see his slightly cool attitude to Donovan. There was nothing in his words or inflection that revealed his emotions but the body language and odd frosty look was perfectly obvious to Sherlock.

If only it had been Anderson who had pointed Sherlock's potential culpability to Lestrade. But it did just show that, even with a map and directions, Anderson couldn't arrive at an idea if his life depended on it.

At least Donovan had followed her instincts. And seemed sufficiently remorseful without feeling the urge to converse.

John stood close as Sherlock handed over his notes so far. As Lestrade looked down at what Sherlock had written in the artificial police light John let his fingers brush across the backs of Sherlock's.

Just once.

Sucking in a surprised breath Sherlock glanced over and felt a thousand words pass between them.

"Will that be all tonight?" John queried.

Lestrade glanced up, puzzled. "Do you have him on a curfew or something?" he asked.

John pulled a tight smile, "You have no idea,"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock expectantly.

And waited.

Even John looked over at him curiously, the strangest look on his face.

"He sets the child on me if I get in too late and wake them up." Sherlock said eventually realising that he probably would have been stalking away and getting in his own taxi if it weren't for the fact that he was currently trying not to think of how John had looked a few nights ago in bed.

Lestrade grinned, "God bless Ava!" He winked. "'Suppose she's closest to the front door being with Mrs Hudson tonight."

Ava was with Mrs Hudson.

The flat was empty.

His room was above Mrs Hudson's sitting room which would also be empty.

"So can we go?" John asked sounding rather breathless.

* * *

><p>Sherlock barely closed the door to the taxi before John yanked him forward by his scarf and pressed their lips together.<p>

Taxi driver be damned.

* * *

><p>Sherlock slammed John against the door as he fumbled at the lock with his key. John was pressed in between Sherlock and the wood and was fisting the back of his coat and scarf.<p>

"Get it open," John murmured into his mouth.

"I'm trying," Sherlock muttered back, between fierce lashings of tongue and lips.

Finally the lock gave way and the door swung open, Sherlock and Jon stumbled into the entrance hall turning as they went to avoid crashing into the table with the telephone and waking everyone up.

Somehow Sherlock managed to close the door behind him.

"Stairs," John gasped between frantic kisses, "Bloody stairs,"

"Shut up," Sherlock hissed, fingers fumbling at John's jacket, almost snarling when John pulled away.

"We'll never get up otherwise," John muttered and turned to walk up the stairs.

Sherlock gaped after him and then followed seconds later.

* * *

><p>John had him against the fridge door and was yanking on his belt.<p>

"Bed," Sherlock muttered, lips searching for John's as if he were magnetised.

"Here's fine," John growled.

Huffing out a laugh and a moan as John's hands unfastened his trousers Sherlock leant his head back against the fridge door.

"Not for what I have in mind." Sherlock managed to get out.

John paused and glanced at him curiously and the expression made Sherlock nuzzle his way in for a kiss. A slower, deeper kiss than they'd been bothering with in their previous haste.

Sherlock herded them into his room, knocking the door shut as he went and dislodging some books that were stacked on the table by the bed.

"Shush," John scolded into his mouth.

"Your fault," Sherlock whispered as he shoved John's jacket off his shoulders (finally) and started on his shirt.

"How?" John protested. "I didn't leave them there." He said between kisses.

"You're here." Sherlock answered, as if that explained something, tumbling them both to the bed.

It was better now. He knew more spots that made John groan and swear. He was starting to lean how firm he could touch to elicit the best response and how to make John's eyes widen and darken with need.

His hand fumbled at the bedside table, knocking the clock to the floor, before he found the drawer and the handle as John's hands swept over his body and pulled his shirt half off. Frustrated John batted at his arm as Sherlock stretched out, tapping around the drawer.

"Stop it," John all but whined into his mouth.

Annoyed Sherlock pulled back and glanced over at the drawer, pulling up a little and giving John room to shift.

Just a glance was all it took for his hand to finally fall on the lube and condoms.

Under him John raised an eyebrow.

"Objections?" Sherlock asked pausing.

John shook his head, "Not one." He muttered before yanking Sherlock back down.

* * *

><p>John's face was tight as he turned to the side, as if to bury his head in the pillow. Gasping and half mad with lust, Sherlock managed to calm himself enough to brush a hand against his cheek.<p>

"John,"

"One second," John screwed his face up even further.

Concerned Sherlock pulled back up to study him which just made John gasp even more and screw his face up further.

"You're being ridiculously chivalrous about this," Sherlock scolded, barely resisting the urge to fold his arms in displeasure.

John cracked open an eye lid, took in the sight of Sherlock and screwed his eyes shut again, his breathing even heavier as he struggled for control.

"It's been a while," John complained. "Will you just shut up and give me a moment."

"Should I be concerned that your adjustment period is getting longer and longer?" Sherlock asked with a snotty tone that he knew would be like a red rag to a bull.

John's eyes snapped open and Sherlock felt the lust surge back at that look.

"No, we're good," John said, face tightening as he seemed to accept the gauntlet Sherlock had laid down.

Amused Sherlock stretched lazily above John and watched his gaze blur for a second. "Are you sure?" he asked in mock concern.

Johns hands slid up Sherlock's thighs, his eyes drinking the sight in. And then, with a wicked smile, he thrust.

It took merely seconds to find a rhythm they were both comfortable with.

* * *

><p>The bullet wound itself was almost neat. The scars from where it had been dug out were not.<p>

Sherlock traced it with his finger, noting when John's sucked in a tired breath and when he barely reacted at all. The web of scar tissue and nerves was simply fascinating.

He would need weeks to study it.

"Go to sleep," John murmured quietly.

The texture and taste was different when he traced it with his tongue. Beside him he felt John relax and gasp at the sensation. Gently he nosed the knobs of John's spine that disappeared into the nape of his neck.

With a huffed sigh, John patted behind him until he found Sherlock's hip

"We're not cats." He scolded without heat.

Taking advantage of the fact that John's arm was now out of the way, Sherlock allowed his hand to slide down John's side and trace circles on his stomach.

"There's no way we're doing round two," John yawned. "Not tonight."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock replied, momentarily damning the fact that he hadn't met John when he was still in his twenties and then, on consideration, counting his blessings. "I'm observing."

"Oh." John turned his head further into the pillow as he lay on his side. "k."

"You're very pliable when you're tired." Sherlock pointed out, sliding down slightly so he could study all of John's back. There were smaller scars from stray shrapnel, a grazed scar from a passing bullet that John had luckily missed.

And a curious one almost in the centre of his back.

Tracing it Sherlock frowned. It was older than the rest and a very odd shape indeed…

All traces of sleep faded as he realised what sort of scar it was.

"What?" John asked, sounding annoyed now. "I swear to god if you've just had some sort of epiphany about the case you can tell me tomorrow-"

"Someone took a belt buckle to you as a child."

There was a very long pause.

"I…" John sighed heavily, "It's not what it looks like."

Sherlock traced it again.

"You know me. Do I seem like a victim of child abuse to you?"

"There's a scar on your back-"

"I got in the way of my step dad and Harry. Or rather my drunk step brother and Harry. The second it happened the row stopped. No-one seemed to realise quite how out of control we'd all gotten until that moment."

Sherlock continued to trace it.

"Harry was difficult. She took our parent's divorce hard. And believe me, my Dad went nuts. Took us both back with him as soon as I was fixed up by the nurse."

"You never mention him." Sherlock said quietly.

"He died-"

"When you were young. Before you left school," Sherlock had been able to deduce that much.

"Six months later in a car crash. Sent us straight back to the mad house. Mum got divorced a year later."

Sherlock was silent.

"I'm an ex-army doctor with a love of danger and unusual reactions to stress. Surely you didn't think I had a stable childhood?" John teased, his muscles in his back twitched as if he had been tempted to roll over to face Sherlock but had thought better of it.

"What happened to the step-brother?"

"Not a clue. I heard Paul went into IT consulting." John shrugged. "Which is probably punishment enough."

Not really.

"And your step father?"

This time John did turn over and Sherlock was forced to abandon his tracings lest his arm become trapped by John.

John studied him, "You're not honestly doing this? Creating a list of people to…" John trailed off as if the idea was too ridiculous to continue, "…Are you?"

Sherlock was stonily silent.

"Fine." John shifted and wriggled. "Then I want every single name of anyone who made you sad or upset you."

Sherlock tilted his head into John's shoulder now that he lay on his back and nodded as if he saw John's point. "Then you should probably stop glaring at Donovan."

"I don't glare at-"

"You do." Sherlock pulled back and placed his head on the pillow.

John scrubbed a hand over his eyes, "You're far more forgiving about what she did than I expected you to be."

"She did what she was meant to. She'd have been a fool not to have brought up her concerns."

John's stared at the ceiling. "She should have known."

"You were blinded by emotion."

Smiling bitterly John shook his head, "You'd never have let yourself get caught. Genius or no"

Amused Sherlock propped his head up with his hand and scanned John's face.

"True." Sherlock leaned over, "But if you insist on glaring at Donovan then I get to visit this step brother."

John scratched at his forehead and then rolled back over to his side. "Fine. I will be kindness itself with her."

Satisfied, Sherlock nodded, "By all means glare at Anderson though."

John chuckled, "I love that you can bring up Donovan and Anderson but I can't mention-"

"-Don't." Sherlock reached over to place a hand over John's mouth. "We discussed this."

John's body rumbled in amusement and Sherlock returned his attention to the scarred shoulder.

* * *

><p>There! Now I have to do 2 lesson plans so i can teach (terrorise) the bad half of the class and the TA can teach the good half of the class in the ICT room.<p>

I was so looking forward to the ICT room. It's so much fun when the kids don't realise you can call up what's on their screens to your own computer! They think you have magic or something!


	13. Part 1: Chapter Twelve

Thank you so much for the great repsonse!

Christmas - with all its up's and downs in the most literal ways as well :P

* * *

><p><strong>23rd December<strong>

Sherlock hadn't realised he'd fallen asleep until he was woken by John getting out of bed. Annoyed by the sudden shift of warmth he curled his arm out, trying to drag John back under the covers. A deep chuckle rung out and a hand smoothed Sherlock's hair out from his face, even as John resisted Sherlock's poor attempts at dragging him back to bed.

"Sleep," John suggested gently. "I need a shower."

Sherlock cracked an eye open as John hesitated before pulling on Sherlock's dressing gown. Enjoying the sight Sherlock watched John as until he'd left the room.

Then dug around for his phone, which he'd put on silent last night so as to not wake John while he texted.

A few of his old contacts had responded; a lot less then was ideal but roughly as many as he had expected. The most promising lead was in Amsterdam, a city Sherlock despised given the temptations it easily offered.

A quick check with the airlines showed that there were a few possible flights. Mycroft's text was barely interesting; simply another vaguely threatening warning suggesting that Sherlock go to his office and hand over what he knew so far.

The latest Sherlock could leave was Christmas Night.

That was not going to be received well.

* * *

><p>John was still in the shower when Sherlock made his way up the stairs to the bathroom. John hadn't bothered to lock the door; a habit he seemed to have developed from having Ava around in case of an emergency.<p>

John turned his head fractionally as Sherlock got into the shower behind him and then looked up at the shower nozzle.

"You do realise you're barely going to get wet with the range of this thing," John muttered.

Sherlock didn't bother to dignify that with a response. The last priority of a joint shower was getting clean. Instead he picked up the shower gel and squeezed it into his hands. As he started to lather the soap across John's back he could feel the muscles relax under his fingers. The web of scars at the edge of John's back resisted at first but slowly there was some give.

His hands trailed down as his mouth pressed against the slick wetness of John's neck, enjoying the different taste and texture. It felt utterly indulgent to watch, as he nipped and sucked, the way that John's hands braced against the tiles for support; the way the short fingernails scrapped across the smooth surface without purchase. His thumb was digging into the gap between the tiles, getting grip from the grouting.

Sherlock could read John's hands as well as John's face. The ease of the clenching finger pads as Sherlock massaged his lower back, the press of the palms against the flat tiles as Sherlock let his hands drift lower. The hitched breath wasn't even needed as Sherlock watched those hands spread in surprise as Sherlock delved lower and, with the lubricant he'd bought with him upstairs, inside.

Still nuzzling at John's throat, Sherlock took advantage of the way the heat and the massage had relaxed John, never adding more than one finger as he let John get used to the new sensation.

And, when the hands stuttered across the tiles Sherlock stopped, turned John around and sunk to his knees, looking up at John with his soaking wet hair clinging to him and wide, desperate eyes. Trails of water trailed down his face, across his still red jaw from Sherlock's ministrations, and fell onto Sherlock as he leaned forward to take John in his mouth, never breaking eye contact.

A hesitant hand reached down and stroked Sherlock's hair from his eyes. There was a slightly stunned look in John's eyes, despite what they had done the night before.

"I lo…" John changed his mind before the words came out and instead tilted his head back, breaking their gaze. "God this feels-"

"Say it," Sherlock pulling back.

The hand in his hair paused as John's mind raced.

"Say it," Sherlock urged again.

"I…I love you." John's voice was utterly determined and didn't waver one bit.

Sherlock nodded and leaned forward again.

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched as John, hair still damp from the shower and smelling of Sherlock's shower gel, stared at the screen in front of him. There was something odd about seeing John in just some old tracksuit bottoms and a tatty grey t-shirt.<p>

A good kind of odd.

John winced and scrubbed his forehead with his hand.

"You can't delay any longer?" he asked eventually.

"I'd lose the lead," Sherlock replied leaning against the desk. "I'm risking far too much as it is."

John nodded slowly, mouth firm. "Mycroft doesn't want you t-"

"Yes, but what Mycroft wants and what he gets are two different things, despite what he thinks." Sherlock replied, avoiding looking at the Christmas tree.

Sighing John pushed the lap-top to one side. "If you two stopped sniping at each other for three minutes-"

"I have included him as much as I think necessary," Sherlock eyed the almost finished tea resting on the side table.

"By?" John asked in a challenging tone.

"Surveillance." Sherlock stared at John's bare feet and the toe that taped for a moment before all the toes curled and moved as John sat forward.

"What?" John's voice was flat in anger.

Sherlock indicted with his head across the street and remained silent as John stood and stared out the window.

"How long?" John asked eventually.

" A month. Give or take a few days."

"Sherlock," John begun not fooled in the slightest.

"The day before Ava's revelation." Sherlock curled his fingers around the edge of the desk.

"Before?" John repeated.

Sherlock nodded, unsure if that was better or worse or if it even made the slightest difference. He watched John stare out the window as if the opposite building held the answers of the universe. And then watched John's eyes flutter shut.

"How long will it take you?" he asked.

"It depends on what I discover." Sherlock replied. "I'd imagine Moriarty will make it…" he fumbled for a suitable word. Using the word interesting wouldn't work well at the moment. "Convoluted," he settled for saying. "He wants to keep my attention."

John's mouth firmed even further at the word but he didn't say anything. Opening his eyes he turned his head a little in Sherlock's direction. The movement of his shoulders suggested he was about to say something but instead he turned back to the window, his fingers tracing strands of clear paths in the morning condensation.

"So… a month?" John asked eventually.

Shocked Sherlock turned to him. "What?"

And watched as John swallowed, "Longer?"

Sherlock ran the conversation through in his head again and hissed in annoyance at himself. Standing, he tugged at John's hand to pull him back from the window and facing him.

"Four days," Sherlock offered. "A week at the very most. "

John's eyes scanned his.

"A week?" John asked.

"At the very most," Sherlock reiterated.

John nodded, "You probably should make it a week." He decided after a moment, "It's bloody murder travelling throughout Christmas week. Knowing you, you'd probably survive Moriarty just to die in horror at the stupidity of boxing day shoppers."

Sherlock curled his lip, "Less than a week. I have no intention of being in Amsterdam for New Year 's Eve."

The confused look gave way to worry seconds later, "Oh god, drugs."

Amused Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to John's lips. "Do keep up." But John's hand shot out and caught Sherlock's sleeve.

"Sherlock-" he started hesitantly.

"Do I seem bored or unhappy to you?" Sherlock asked with not a small amount of irritation. "Do I appear to be looking for a distraction from mind numbing monotony? I simply dislike the reminder."

John's shoulders relaxed fractionally, "Well, I suppose every Moriarty caused cloud has a silver lining."

"Idiot," Sherlock growled with a pointed nip to John's bottom lip, creating smile to form.

"No, just not stupid." John responded to the kiss. "Nor blind to the fact that you're now trying to get me to snog you in front of Mycroft's people."

"I could be trying to get you to do worse," Sherlock pointed out. "Besides, as my dear brother seems so utterly desperate to interfere in our relationship, I thought I'd withhold nothing from him."

John stared at him unimpressed, "I need another cup of tea," he muttered.

* * *

><p>Sherlock left as John went downstairs to retrieve Ava from Mrs Hudson. A quick stop at Lestrade's to check that he had arrested the correct family member (which he had) and then off to stir up some old informants from years ago.<p>

Nothing could ever beat his homeless network. It was merely a pity that there was little continuity in it. But he'd done it once before, reviving it wouldn't be too hard.

After all he was currently the foremost expert on reviving things this year.

* * *

><p><strong>24th December<strong>

Mrs Hudson caught him as he went to go back upstairs just after dawn.

"Come to the kitchen," she said firmly.

"I was-"

"Come to the kitchen."

Sherlock cast an eye up the stairs and then, with a dramatic sigh turned back down the two steps he'd managed to scale before Mrs Hudson had summoned.

Ava would be up by now anyway. It was unlikely he'd catch John alone at this time of the morning.

"Yes?" he asked, letting his frustration show in the single word.

"I'm disappointed in you," Mrs Hudson started to scold.

For what? Already irritated Sherlock started to look around for something to distract her.

"It's Christmas," she continued as if that would mean something.

"I'm unsure as to why you're surprised that I've disappointed you at Christmas." Sherlock muttered, "Surely I'm merely staying to form."

"Because I've never had to have that poor little girl camped out on the floor of my kitchen two days before Christmas, half convinced you and John were going to forget to come back for her."

There was nothing in him that knew how to react to that.

"She's five years old-"

"I am not her father," Sherlock hissed, before belatedly realising what that implied about John. "I have other things to-"

"You have responsibilities now," Mrs Hudson begun, folding her arms with displeasure. "You can't just go gallivanting off-"

Suddenly cold Sherlock snapped his arm out, catching one of her arms, "What does that mean?"

Mrs Hudson looked him up and down as if he'd gone mad. "You were out all of yesterday-"

Relaxing, he let his careful grip loosen, relieved that she hadn't found out his travel plans. "John is with her. I haven't dragged him out "gallivanting" with me."

"She needs both of you-"

Sherlock snorted; that was probably the most ridiculous thing to come out of Mrs Hudson's mouth yet. "If that is all-"

"It's Christmas. " Mrs Hudson said firmly. "Just try."

Rolling his eyes he swept out of the room, upstairs and collapsed into bed before John or Ava saw him.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry." Ava announced as Sherlock exited his room that evening.<p>

"For?" he asked with little interest as he stalked towards the sofa.

"Making you mad the other day."

Suddenly dreadfully uncomfortable Sherlock paused, but Ava had already dashed upstairs before he could work out what to say. In his chair, John eyed him carefully.

"She doesn't mean it," John said finally, putting his book down.

Sherlock glanced at him.

"Well…" John shifted, "I mean, she's been told all year that if she isn't good then Father Christmas won't come. My mercenary daughter is just hedging her bets."

"Sensible," Sherlock muttered, the uncomfortable feeling still not fading. Without knowing why he changed his direction and stared at the tree with it's wonky lights and solitary pink bauble that John had never asked about.

"I'll tell her you have a case. She won't know you're not here."

"I think even she will notice." Sherlock muttered.

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock stared at the presents under the tree. "What would you be doing? If it were just the two of you?"

"Working. Probably being Moriarty's whipping boy. Hardly seeing Ava and feeling guilty for it."

Sherlock nodded and went up to have a shower.

* * *

><p>When he ventured back down, John was demonstrating his new found cooking ability with his preparation of sausages and chips.<p>

"Chinese is on it's way for us." John said, clearly spotting Sherlock's look.

"Festive," Sherlock commented.

"Just trying to ease you into it," John said with a smile as he eyed the mass of frozen peas, clearly trying to decide the best way to break it apart.

"There hardly seems much point," Sherlock muttered.

Whatever John had been about to say in response was lost as Ava flew into the kitchen.

"Chips?" she asked in awe. "We're having chips?"

And then proceeded to try and watch through the oven door as the chips cooked. John exchanged a slightly disbelieving look with Sherlock before scooping her up in his arms.

"We've had the oven conversation before young lady." He scolded as he set Ava back on her feet, away from the oven.

"But it's Christmas," Ava said pointedly.

"That doesn't mean you touch the oven." John scolded turning his attention back to the peas.

Ava scowled at him and then looked up at Sherlock, "Why does it only work when Mrs Hudson says it?" she complained, bottom lip jutting out in a sulk.

Sherlock watched her quietly.

"Can we play pencils?" Ava asked suddenly.

John paused at the sink, "Ava you have other games now-"

"But I like pencils."

John nodded and left the peas in the bowl by the sink, gently placing a hand behind her head and nudging her over to the sofa. "Ok." He said finally, sounding still unsure as to whether this was a good idea.

"And Sherlock," Ava ordered, resisting John's careful hand.

John glanced over at him beseechingly.

Which was how, minutes later, Sherlock found himself on the floor with Ava and John as John chucked a box of pencils in a heap.

"You have to pick the pencils up." Ava announced, clearly deciding she was going first. "But you can only use one hand and you can't touch any other pencil."

And then she proceeded to cheat outrageously.

* * *

><p>John abandoned the game to see to Ava's dinner, leaving Sherlock and Ava to battle it out.<p>

Sherlock was winning, even if John had given his pencils to Ava.

"You know you have to let me win," Ava told him as soon as John was out of ear shot.

"Really?" Sherlock drawled.

"I forgot to get Daddy a present-"

Sherlock hesitated, hovering his hand over the pencil he'd been about to pick.

"-And he told me that my present to him was me being happy. So you have to let me win."

Sherlock studied Ava who was staring studiously at his hand.

"I'll take you next time." He said evenly, the words coming out before he even had time to think it through.

Ava looked up at him. "You still have to let me win," she pouted.

* * *

><p>"What the hell did you do with carrots?" John hissed as he shoved the plates in the sink.<p>

"I-"

John held up a hand, "On second thoughts I'm not sure I want to know," he gripped the edge of the counter. "We have to have something in, some drink of some sort." He scrapped a hand through his hair, "Damn, bloody Santa Claus and his food."

"I'll get some."

"Try Mrs Hud-"

"I'll get some," Sherlock repeated.

* * *

><p>Given that he'd borrowed milk from Mrs Hudson the last time John had asked him to go to the shops it seemed highly unlikely that she'd replaced her tiny one pint since yesterday evening. Especially as she barely drunk the stuff.<p>

Next door were out. The married ones.

They could spare a pint of milk and a carrot.

Or maybe the whole 4 pints and the bag carrots. He may as well make sure.

* * *

><p>The moment John saw the size of the milk he glared.<p>

"Don't tell me you stole that."

"Then I won't." Sherlock said placing his loot on the table.

"It's Christmas. You can't just-"

"You found milk," Ava squealed in delight as she rushed forward, hair tinted gold in the light and looking utterly cosy in her fluffy little dressing gown. "And-" her eyes widened comically as tiny fingers reached out for the carrots. "Are these real?" she asked.

John glanced down at the carrots and then at the organic, expensive label on the side of the bag. His mouth firmed and Sherlock turned away from John. "Of course they are."

"Sherlock-" John begun, sounding annoyed

Ava saved him. Her bright eager face glanced between the two of them, her fingers tightening on the carrot in front of her defensively.

There was no way John was going to ask him to take it back.

* * *

><p>John managed, with some amount of patience and tenacity, to get Ava into bed. She was struggling to keep her eyes open and her voice was thick with sleep as John tucked her in, patiently kissing the bear and a doll goodnight as well.<p>

Sherlock hovered at the door, listening to the story and not really sure what to do with himself.

"Daddy?"

"Mmm?"

"You know you said I had to be happy for Christmas?"

Sherlock watched John pause and stiffen in worry. "Yes?"

"Can I have a present like that?"

"I suppose..." John glanced back at Sherlock as if asking for help.

"Can you make Sherlock act like he normally does for Christmas?"

John turned to look at Sherlock pointedly, "Why? What's wrong with how he's acting now?" he asked Ava while keeping his eyes triumphantly on Sherlock.

"Not talking," Ava muttered. "He looks like he's been told off."

That was hardly an adequate explanation of what had happened. But perhaps, as close as a five year old could be expected to get to the situation.

Turning, he made his way down stairs and waited for John.

* * *

><p><strong>25th December<strong>

The present in his hands was weighty and John smiled over Ava's shoulder in amusement.

"Is he going to keep the paper?" Ava asked John sincerely.

"For god sakes Sherlock, just tear it." John encouraged with a warm smile.

There was something off. His expression was too relaxed in comparison to the other present. But it was in his wrapping paper.

And it wasn't in a box.

"You seem strangely eager about revealing a present you bought." Sherlock muttered, turning it over in his hands, considering it.

John's puzzled expression answered his unspoken question before he spoke, "I didn't buy that for you,"

"It's wrapped up with the paper you've used for everything else." Sherlock said carefully, mind racing as he stroked a finger along the edge.

John shook his head, "OK...then I've forgotten it. Deleted it so you can't guess." He teased.

No. He hadn't. He'd have remembered the one present that wasn't in a box.

But Ava was staring at him with eagerness and Mrs Hudson was learning forward in interest, neither one of them suspecting anything was amiss.

But John's forehead had creased and frowned as he tried to think.

Sherlock opened it carefully, unsurprised at the photo album that appeared under the wrapping.

A photograph.

"I'm really sure I didn't get you that," John said with a nervous laugh, "Though I hate shopping so I may have just forgotten out of self-preservation."

Sherlock looked over at the pair of them, Ava's little tinsel crown and John's relaxed shoulders. "That sounds worryingly likely," he drawled.

John snapped his eyes to Sherlock.

Clearly that had been the wrong thing to say.

John's eyes trailed down to the photo album, coming to the same conclusion Sherlock had.

Closing his eyes, John pulled Ava closer to him and tried to laugh weakly.

Unable to watch Sherlock stood, hands gripping the album so tightly that he wouldn't be surprised if he managed to damage it.

He'd brought Moriarty into their lives, into the flat.

He should have gone yesterday, the moment that he'd walked away from that dinner

"Let me see," John said, approaching from behind. "She's upstairs"

Sherlock let John ease the album from his grip. It annoyed him that he couldn't make an educated guess as to what the picture would be. A threat or a puzzle clue.

Sherlock watched John's face as he lifted the cover.

Instantly he went white.

Ava.

* * *

><p>Sherlock studied the photograph as Mycroft steepled his fingers. Even his office was quiet, the building barely being used on Christmas afternoon.<p>

"Was she the intended target do you think?" Mycroft asked with polite interest.

Sherlock shook his head, "John and I were still awake. She was the only option for the photographer."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that but made no comment.

"They would have had to wrap it the same night and place it under the tree." Mycroft mused, "No point in taking the risk twice."

Which meant someone had been in the flat the same night that he and John had been together. For a moment Sherlock could picture someone standing at the door, listening to them…

"It's a reminder," Sherlock tossed the photograph down. "Or a summons. Either way I need to go."

Mycroft was scanning him with an unusual level of intent.

"Are you sure?" he asked eventually.

"That I have to go?" Sherlock asked patronisingly.

"That she wasn't the intended target. If she was it opens up-"

"Jim Moriarty can barely conceive of my…regard for John. He can use it but he doesn't understand it. He knows how to manipulate that, and everything hinges on him being able to control my reactions. He will not risk using another method, not when this one works so well."

Mycroft was still watching him.

"Are you sure?" he repeated.

Sherlock stared down at the picture, at the sight of Ava curled up and so utterly terrifyingly fragile on the kitchen floor.

"If I wasn't," he said carefully, "Do you not think acting like I was would be her best protection? Either way it makes no difference."

* * *

><p>He played it over and over in his head on the way back. Sherlock could see glimpses of the tree but he'd never really observed it, or the presents beneath. If he'd looked, properly looked from the start then maybe he would have spotted the present as soon as it went down and avoided John knowing just how close they'd come to loosing Ava.<p>

And if he hadn't been with John that night, if they hadn't been so wrapped up in each other would he have noticed that something was amiss. Would he have been woken by a stranger in their flat.

The mere idea that someone could have overheard, could have been poking around their home while he and John were in bed together seemed utterly vulgar. It made him want to scream at something. The only blessing was that, so far, John hadn't seemed to have put two and two together, concerned as he was about Ava.

He needed to get away. He needed to think clearly.

He needed to be able to think without feeling that gut wrenching twist in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

><p>"You're still going?" John asked when Sherlock got back into the quiet flat, an hour before he needed to leave.<p>

"It doesn't change anything," Sherlock said calmly.

John's arm shot out and his grip was like iron.

"Don't you dare downplay this," John started, "Don't you dare-"

"What?" Sherlock challenged. "Leave? Fix it?"

John let go with an angry hiss, "Because only the great Sherlock Holmes can possibly make everything better."

"Go on then," Sherlock stepped forward, "Go upstairs and tell your daughter that you're leaving on Christmas day to help me track down the people that dared enter our home to goad me out to play. Tell her that we have to trek around the world to dismantle an organisation headed by a man who has an unhealthy obsession with explosives. Tell her you might not come back-"

John shoved him. "Go to hell."

Sherlock smirked, "Gone." And stalked off to his bedroom to pack.

* * *

><p>When he left his room John was sat on the chair, head in his hands and breathing slow.<p>

"I would, if I could." John said as Sherlock stalked past the door to go down the stairs. "I hate that I'm not going with you."

"She comes first," Sherlock stared at the open doorway and towards John. "You always said that."

"And you never argued it," John replied softly, still not looking over at him. "But you can't go alone-"

"I can." Sherlock didn't move towards him, "I am more than capable of coping-"

"I don't want you coping." John muttered, his voice muffled as he continued to stare at the ground, "I want you safe."

"This is pointless. You cannot come and I cannot stay." Sherlock sniffed, trying to dismiss the issue.

"You could ask for help." John replied in a flat tone.

Resisting the urge to sigh in irritation, Sherlock glared instead. "I do not need help-"

"No, you don't want help." John's lifted his head and stared out the window. "Not for yourself."

"He will not kill me-"

"There are worse things Sherlock." John stated firmly, "You know that."

This was going no-where.

"I'll text you when I have return date." He said in a voice the brooked no nonsense and was intended to end the conversation.

"You do that," John said still not looking at him.

It was infuriating that he could think of nothing to say in return.

* * *

><p>I know that this is a bit light on how Sherlock is feeling but, in my head, he's pulling away and trying not to think about them. (Sigh, me explaining a chpater usually means it's godawful...)<p> 


	14. Part 1: Chapter Thirteen

Sorry! I had my last week at the school and everything was a bit hectic. I'm way behind on the reviews and messages but I though you'd all prefer a chapter update today!

Hope you enjoy :)

* * *

><p><strong>29<strong>**th**** December**

Throughout the entire conversation with a man known only as Jepp, Sherlock's phone was silent. It had been silent for three days.

It vibrated. Everyone else's messages and calls he'd sent to vibrate only, but he'd wanted to know without any effort when John called so he could act accordingly. And by that, he meant make sure that he was appropriately gracious when John eventually apologised.

After all there was no point in dragging this argument out. Not when it was so obvious that John had clearly been emotional last time they'd spoken.

But the phone remained stubbornly silent.

It was distracting. Jepp was useless, his information was obvious but the potential contacts Sherlock would get from him were necessary. It was dull sitting in the cramped coffee shop listening to him wittering on.

Why hadn't John called?

This was far too long to be attributed to sulking.

He'd probably be finished in a day or two. The sources were already drying up and the one criminal operation that had all the markings of a Moriarty nudge had been painfully easy to unravel and hand over to the police.

Jepp spotted someone over Sherlock's head and summoned them over; for a weedy, ratty looking man, he utterly hated moving unless strictly necessary. In the mirror above Jepp's head, Sherlock watched a woman, long and slender make her way over. There was an unfortunate amount of make-up on her, but deftly applied implying a certain skill level. The clothes were tight but well matched indicting she'd put weight on recently. She hesitated before she spoke which meant she wasn't a native Dutch speaker and was still nervous about her pronunciation.

The way Jepp grabbed at her indicated that she was a prostitute of some description. The way she stiffened before relaxing, her hand raising and falling as if to check something on her shirt and her angle as she sat facing them indicated she was undercover in some way.

Dull and irritating. Perhaps he'd have to speed things up then.

When Jepp got up to excuse himself to the toilet she leaned over.

"Calvier was caught in London."

Sherlock didn't react or pause in his movements as he took out is phone. "Your employers will be thrilled at you talking to me."

She narrowed her eyes, "You solved a problem for a friend a few days ago."

Ahh, a friend on the force then. The law enforcement certainly was an incestuous bunch.

"And another name popped up," she added, her mouth tight with frustration as she shifted, uncomfortable in her disguise. Clearly new, she wouldn't last long.

"I imagine it has," Sherlock drawled, unconcerned and far more eager to focus on more important matters.

Like getting Jepp to reveal his "friend" in the black market.

"Watson."

Sherlock snapped his eyes to hers.

Every single question that he wanted to ask crowded into his mouth but he was aware enough that he could spot Jepp on his way back from the bar. Seconds later the woman opposite him stiffened in panic, trying to shot him a desperate message with her eyes.

She certainly wouldn't last long.

Switching back to Dutch Sherlock swivelled his body to face Jepp to continue their business, mind racing.

* * *

><p><strong>30<strong>**th**** December**

He wouldn't be the one to call. John was the one getting tangled up in unnecessary things. John was the one in the wrong.

Unfortunately the only other option was Mycroft.

Or Lestrade.

Debating the three options, Sherlock called the least unpalatable.

Lestrade answered on the fourth ring.

"Why is John's name caught up with Marco Calvier?" Sherlock asked without bothering with social niceties.

"Who is th…of for fuck sakes Sherlock. It's four in the morning." Lestrade muttered in a voice that sounded both half asleep and murderously furious.

Sherlock glanced at his watch, half interested to see that it was indeed almost five in the morning where he was. "Congratulations Inspector, perhaps you should consider attending crime scene's in your current state. You certainly seem quicker." He commented, voice thick with sarcasm.

"What do you want?"

"John's name and Marco Calvier. One of Moriarty's favoured thieves. Why are they linked?"

"I…is this some trick question?" Lestrade sounded slightly more alert.

Sherlock stared up at the glittering fairy lights above him with distaste. "Answer the question as best you can." He instructed.

"Why not phone John?" Lestrade asked yawning.

"We're…having a difference of opinion."

"I gathered. What did you do?"

"Nothing," Sherlock snapped, "John is merely being stubborn and refusing to admit when he's wrong."

"Right," Lestrade didn't sound convinced. "Well I have no idea, I didn't take the statement and I wasn't the arresting officer. It may surprise you to hear this Sherlock, but I'm not the only police Inspector in London and we don't take requests as to arresting officer."

"What statement?"

There was a long pause which Sherlock registered as being potentially dangerous.

"You don't know what happened?" Lestrade sounded positively chipper now.

The other options were Mycroft and John himself, Sherlock reminded himself as his thumb hovered temptingly close to the end call button.

"John marched him up to the front desk. Last I heard Calvier was begging to give a confession. Something about breaking into your flat over Christmas." Lestrade explained.

"Breaking in to… " Sherlock trailed off and stared at the wall in front of him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called, "Are you still there?"

"You've been unusually useful Inspector." Sherlock commented as he hung up the phone.

He was going to kill Mycroft.

* * *

><p><strong>31<strong>**st**** December**

_ETA 12.30 SH_

Twenty minutes later Sherlock was still glancing at his phone, waiting for a response.

Nothing.

_Will want tea. Get milk. SH_

There. That should sufficiently irritate John.

Twelve minutes later a text came through. _At work. Get it yourself._

_Ah yes, being Mycroft's lapdog does take up time. SH_

Nothing.

* * *

><p>The flat looked the same. Which was a ridiculous and obvious thing to think since he'd only been gone four days. There was one difference though, which was the picture on the fire place of John and Ava out in the snow.<p>

It was beyond Sherlock why he picked it up and thumbed across the smiling faces. There was no useful information to be gained from it whatsoever. From the angle it looked as If Mrs Hudson had taken it and it must have been on Boxing Day because of the snow. Ava was wearing her new mittens that Mycroft had provided (likely Mycroft secretary) and John was smiling in a rare moment of unguarded happiness.

Without him.

Shaking the thought away, Sherlock placed the picture back on the mantelpiece, careful to replace it exactly as it was.

* * *

><p>Ava was digging about for something in the little toy-box that John had bought when Sherlock came out from the shower. She turned, caught him out of the corner of her eye and let out an excited shriek.<p>

And then, abandoning her search, flung herself up at him.

Sherlock had seconds to adjust and work out how this new position worked. True, he'd held her in his arms before but that had been when she'd been half asleep, quiet and almost sweet. This was just an excited five year old, all elbows and knees with far too much energy.

"I haven't seen you in ages!" She complained as he hastened to settle her against her hip least he drop her from all her wriggling. John was annoyed enough as it was without Sherlock dropping Ava on her head.

"It has been six days," he corrected.

"Yeah, ages," Ava agreed drawing the words out unnecessarily and leaning back to look at him as her arms rested on his shoulders. "Did you catch the bad guys?"

"I…" It sounded vaguely childish when she put it like that. "No."

"Daddy caught a bad guy," Ava told him solemnly, plucking at his shirt collar and giving him a pointed look. "And he didn't stay up all night."

"Good for him," Sherlock glanced at the floor, trying to work out how to detach her. But Ava leaned her head against one of his shoulders and tightened her arms a tiny bit. Her soft hair brushed his cheek and she smelt of John, sweets and snow.

Five minutes wouldn't hurt.

* * *

><p>Mrs Hudson was waved back downstairs when she came looking for Ava. She popped back up at Ava's bedtime and helped get her sorted for bed.<p>

It should have been dull, domestic and desperately suffocating. But it wasn't. And when Mrs Hudson went back down because there was a double bill of one of her godforsaken shows, Ava and he curled up on the sofa with a blanket and she brought down some of her books.

"It's the pig," he told her as they started to read. "He'll betray them."

Ava gave him a strange look. "Of course it's the pig," she told him, "All the other animals are cute."

There was some logic in there he supposed. "Then why read it?" he asked.

Ava stared at him, mouth twisting in thought as she snuggled into him. "Because Mrs Parker says that you have to read otherwise you'll miss out on good stories."

Sherlock eyed the books with distaste, "And you think this is a good story?"

And then there was a look.

A sneaky, inspired look that he wholeheartedly would have approved of, had it not been directed his way.

"We could always read one of Daddy's stories." Ava suggested, looking at the laptop pointedly.

Sherlock studied her and then reached for the laptop. "How about correcting his stories," he suggested.

* * *

><p>She'd fallen asleep once he'd realised that entertaining her with his comments about John's writing style was not productive to getting her to sleep. Sherlock had taken her up to bed, tucked her in and found himself almost leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead.<p>

Foolish.

* * *

><p>John came in late.<p>

"You were at the police station," Sherlock said without turning his head.

"And?" John asked in a clipped voice.

"Mycroft should not have involved you," Sherlock responded pacing the violin back under his chin.

Something was tossed angrily on the sofa and then the door was shut as John went upstairs, the tread creaking under his furious steps.

Without playing, Sherlock let the violin fall from his shoulder and stared out the window, before he turned, picked up the pint of milk that had been thrown on the sofa and put it in the fridge, all the while suffering from that terrible nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, he'd gone about this all wrong.

And it was only an hour and a half later that the fireworks started to go off and he realised it was New Year's Eve.

* * *

><p>Sherlock climbed the stairs carefully, making enough noise to let John know he was coming up without waking Ava. The door was open and he could see John, sat on the edge on the bed with his head in his hands, occasionally illuminated by the fireworks from outside.<p>

Without comment Sherlock sat on the bed next to him, eyes inexplicably drawn to the sleeping child opposite.

"Explain it to me," Sherlock said quietly as the fireworks started to die out.

There was a wordless shake of the head and John let his hands fall down, clasping them together as he still leaned forward.

Sherlock waited, longer than he felt he wanted to. The urge to snap and demand that John just put what he wanted to say into words was overwhelming but, watching John's face as the light from the fireworks played with it, the expression kept him quiet. It was only once the noise had faded and the room had been plunged into a half-darkness that John spoke.

"I am not your housewife," he started, his voice like steel. "I am not going to sit here and wait to hear whether you've managed to survive the week."

"Did I give you any indication-"

"Besides sweeping in and declaring that you and Mycroft had decided without me what was going to happen next?" John almost sneered. "Not calling or texting for almost a week-"

"You are more than capable of pushing the buttons on your phone John-"

"You were…I don't even know what you were doing but it was dangerous. Do you really think I was going to get in contact and put you at risk?" John asked with some disbelief.

"I would have managed-"

"I'm not having this discussion with you again." John leaned back and stared ahead, "Go to bed."

"No."

Startled John turned to him.

"What happened with Calvier?"

"Go to b-"

"Tell me or I will raise my voice." Sherlock threatened.

John let out a furious breath and stood suddenly, striding past where Sherlock sat and storming out of the bedroom.

Sherlock stood and glanced over at the sleeping girl, waiting and checking her serene face before he went down after John.

Even Ava wasn't _that _good a faking sleep.

* * *

><p>The light was on downstairs and Sherlock winced as his eyes adjusted after sitting in the dark for so long. John stood, feet slightly apart and arms folded, clearly rock solid in his position.<p>

Sherlock closed the door behind him and waited.

"He came back." John said after a moment, "He was an idiot who came back and I walked in on him."

"You don't just walk in on it," Sherlock snapped, "Even you would have spotted the signs that something wasn't right."

"And?"

"You didn't call anyone." Sherlock grounded out with irritation. "Instead you walked in, knowing Calvier was likely to be armed."

John's face showed nothing. No surprise, no curiosity, no momentary pause to wonder what might have happened.

Which meant Clavier had likely pulled the gun on him.

"How could you have been so idiotic-"

"You really want to do this?" John snarled. "Play the hypocrite and scold me because I came home and apprehended a burglar sent by the man who's trying to destroy you? You were off in the red light district, meeting in what might have been a set up. You walked into a hotel room filled with people who wanted your blood. You jumped off a bloody building and disappeared for five years and you want to discuss how dangerous and stupid _my _behaviour this week had been?" John was almost shouting at the end of it.

"Because I don't want you caught up in this-" Sherlock began.

"Don't you dare do this," John hissed, "I asked you, I told you why I didn't think "us" was a good idea. You wanted this Sherlock, not me. I knew what you were like but you promised me-"

"You have a child." Sherlock slammed his fist on the table, barely aware he'd moved from the door. "She comes first and I am not coming back here and asking for your permission every time I need to make a decision.

"I don't want to give you permission, I want you to fucking tell me what you're doing. I want you to understand that, as much as I accept you are who you are; it isn't in my nature to sit at home, wringing my hands, hoping you're taking care of everything."

"I brought him into our home," Sherlock exploded, "I brought him back-"

"No, he brought you back using me." John hissed, "Which should be the clearest bloody example Sherlock of what he will do if you keep shutting me out of this."

Sherlock gripped the back of the chair feeling some of the anger drain away, "He won't." Sherlock said, voice calmer.

"Sherlock-" John begun, arm raised.

"It's a game," Sherlock muttered forcefully, "He won't risk losing-"

"Sherlock last time-"

"Last time you weren't mine." Sherlock watched his knuckles turn white. "He won't cross that line-"

John stared at him in disbelief, "Why? Because Moriarty's secretly a Mills and Boons fan?"

"You are my trigger." Sherlock started.

"Exactly, he's going to use me to-"

"And if you're gone he has nothing." Sherlock continued letting his tongue lash the words out. "Nothing to use to protect himself."

John closed his eyes momentarily and then opened them. "He will get that bored Sherlock. When he first came into our lives you were fascinated at what he could do. Do you honestly think that Moriarty isn't desperate enough to see what you are fully capable of without distractions or weak links?"

Sherlock's heart twisted strangely as he swallowed.

"Do not make me sit in the dark and wait for the day he puts a bullet in my head." John continued on.

It was as if his stomach was dropping out to the floor. The chair suddenly was vital for keeping him up.

"He will use me to destroy you." John's voice rang out like the crack of a whip.

"He can't win if he-"

"He doesn't want to win." John turned away and opened one of the cupboards. "He wants you to lose."

Mycroft's voice hammered away again.

"_James Moriarty doesn't play to win or to show off; he pays to destroy his opponents. And a blind man would know how to ruin you."_

"When did Mycroft talk to you?" Sherlock heard himself ask dimly.

"After Calvier." John placed a glass of water in front of Sherlock. "He thought I might succeed in drumming this into your thick head where he had failed."

Sherlock closed his fingers around the class, watching the water inside as it swayed and sloshed.

"There was a time Sherlock, when you trusted me to back you up, to go out on my own, to run errands and search for puzzle pieces for you to fit together."

"This isn't an issue of trust."

"Really?" John raised an eyebrow. "So after five years of barely trusting anyone you don't think you might have problems in that department."

"I've had over thirty seven years of problems in that department," Sherlock snapped. "It's never posed an issue between us before."

John let out a sigh that was as tired as it was annoyed. "I'm going back to bed." He said, "You go think or sleep or reboot." He stalked past Sherlock towards the door.

The briefest flash of warmth brushed past him and Sherlock lost the slither of patience he'd been holding onto. Whirling he grabbed out at John and pushed him back, slamming their lips together with a fierce hand to the back of John's head.

For a moment John kissed him back, just as brutally and then there was an almighty shove that had Sherlock stumbling back in surprise.

"No." John said flatly. "Absolutely not."

"We're both angry," Sherlock eyed him carefully, trying to work out what to push and pull at to get his way. "Don't you want to show Moriarty who-"

He stopped himself seeing John's mouth firm and his shoulders square. Clearly attempting to incite a possessive wrath wasn't going to work.

"I'm going to make this utterly clear," John said into the stretching silence. "I will never touch you when we're fighting."

"Don't be ridiculous-"

"This has no place in our bed." John stated firmly. "Ever."

Sherlock stared at him, torn between frustration and intrigue.

For a moment it seemed as if John was going to say something more. In the end though he just turned around, opened the door and shut it behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>1<strong>**st**** January**

"Can I watch cartoons?"

Distracted Sherlock turned his head to stare at Ava.

"Why are you awake?" he asked, not moving from his contemplative position on the sofa.

Ava looked confused, "Because it's time to be awake?" she asked.

A glance at the clock revealed it was just after eight in the morning.

"No," he said, aware that Ava was still waiting for an answer to her original question. She pulled a face in response but said nothing.

"Did John ever date anyone while I was away?" he asked her suddenly.

"What's that mean?" Ava asked, screwing up her nose and peering at him in a way that indicated she was contemplating squeezing onto the sofa with him.

"Did he ever have a boyfriend or girlfriend?"

"No, because he's in love with you," Ava told him as if he was being stupid. "And in the fairy tales you have to prove you really love someone by being nice and passing all the tests otherwise you don't get a happy ending. He couldn't just get a girlfriend or a boyfriend."

Sherlock turned his head back to gaze at the ceiling and took a deep calming breath, torn between the puzzle that had been John's reaction to his attempts to initiate sex and the task of compromising.

Again.

* * *

><p>Sherlock waited until Ava had gone upstairs to play before he approached John while he was washing up.<p>

The strong shoulders in front of him tensed and Sherlock could read every line of John's wariness in the angle of his back. Softly he bent his lips to John's ear.

"Forgive me?"

John sighed and scrubbed a bowl a little harder. "That's not the same as saying sorry," he pointed out.

Sherlock paused.

"I'm not expecting it." John dumped the bowl on the draining board, "Just as long as you know that I'm aware of the difference."

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his neck. "I know."

John pulled his hands out of the water and seemed to spend ages drying them, as if using the time to collect his thoughts.

"Is that rule of yours something you've always followed or is it just for us?" Sherlock asked as John ran the towel through his hands.

John stared down at his hands, "I suppose I should be flattered you were interested enough in fixing this to hold off asking about that."

"Indeed." Sherlock waited, enjoying the warmth at his front.

"I…there was this man in my patrol group. We…" John tilted his head to the side, "It was more…I can't even describe it. It wasn't about or comfort or sex…we just, I don't know, help each other out every so often."

Sherlock pretended he didn't notice the way his own fingers tightened slightly around John's t-shirt.

"Anyway then we had a replacement in," The tone of John's voice told volumes about that story. "And they were…they fit, you know? I'd been in three years by then and I'd never seen anything like it. But they were fierce. With each other. You can be in those circumstances; some days you just sit at night and try to work out how the hell you survived the day."

Uncomfortable Sherlock tightened his grip further.

"But they didn't talk. They just…and they weren't quiet about it." John took a deep breath. "The more they did it the worse they got. It was like they were just taking from each other. I mean you could tell that they loved each other but as it went on it clear it wasn't right."

"You think that could happen to us?" Sherlock asked, resting his chin on John's shoulder.

"Don't you?"

Sherlock let out a long breath and nodded. "It seems possible." He acknowledged. "What happened to them?"

"They were two very passionate, brazenly careless homosexuals in an army, fighting in a religious, war torn country. What do you think happened?" John asked pulling away.

"John-"

"One died, one lives." John shrugged. "Well, he seems to be slowly trying to kill himself but last time I saw him he was hanging on." He moved to walk away but Sherlock caught his hand and tugged gently.

They stared at each other, John's anger at the story slowly fading away as Sherlock watched him carefully.

Slowly, gently Sherlock leaned in and this time John didn't pull away. It was perhaps the most chaste kiss Sherlock had ever purporsefully given.

"I missed you," Sherlock murmured against his lips.

John nodded and then pulled back slightly, "Me too."

"You have an odd way of showing it," Sherlock commented, stepping back as he heard Ava thudding down the stairs.

"Really? I though the fact that I threw the milk at the sofa and not at your head was a blindingly obvious clue."

"I was distracted," Sherlock muttered.

John grinned for the first time since he'd gotten back and it almost made Sherlock want to explore every single possible way to keep John that amused for the rest of the dy. "I suppose that should be flattering too," he teased.

* * *

><p>There you are. :)<p>

Next Chapter - John and Sherlock talk about what happened while Sherlock was away and pay a visit to Lestrade.


	15. Part 1: Chapter Fourteen

Typical! I upload and ff does it's pathetic whimper of defeat and collapses it's emails for the night! I'm starting to fear I'm cursed if i don't update for a few days!

I figured as I left it a week to update that I would be lovely and update today as well! And will now go and backtrack through reviews :)

Enjoy

* * *

><p>It was only later that night as Ava snuggled into John while watching some film about a child magician that Sherlock realised he'd been ignoring the evidence that had been right in front of his face.<p>

John winced as Ava shifted, then caught Sherlock's eye unintentionally.

Whatever the man saw was enough to make John wince again and mouth the word "later" over Ava's head. That, however, wasn't enough to prevent Sherlock from standing up and retrieving his coat as he slammed out of the flat, aborting John's weary attempt to call him back.

Outside Mycroft's car sat waiting and his bodyguard/chauffer/PA of the month stepped into Sherlock's path.

"Your brother would like a word, before you terrorise prisoners." The man said in a cultured and rather uninterested tone of voice.

Sherlock threw him a filthy glance and moved to side step him and carry on his way. But the innocuous man across the street stopped what he was doing and the rather sweet looking woman ahead of him folded her arms.

Sherlock slowed to a stop and turned his head slightly in the direction of the man. "I will not be summoned," he hissed.

The man made no comment, and seemed to have no interest in making a comment. He merely opened the car door and waited.

Sniffing, Sherlock haughtily made his way to the door, giving the man a once over as he did so.

"Your mother's entertaining your gardener." He offered silkily as he slid in. There was a moment of delicious triumph as he managed to make one of Mycroft's handpicked nonchalant employee's falter.

But then they were the easiest to read; upsetting Mycroft's people had always been his favoured sport as a teenager.

* * *

><p>Lestrade looked relieved to have Mycroft in his office, which was probably the first time in their combined history that had happened; usually Mycroft served to make Lestrade snippy and fractious.<p>

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the desk as he read the statement John had given and the confession from Calvier.

"Do you have to do that?" Lestrade asked sounding annoyed.

Sherlock raised his eyes to Lestrade, then started tapping more pointedly and with less rhythm, making Lestrade's mouth twist and his eyes roll.

_Entered the flat…ransacking Sherlock's room…startled intruder…broken glass…_

"You cleaned it up," Sherlock muttered. "It was why everything looked exactly the same."

"I had thought you'd notice the minute you stepped through the door." Mycroft said as he sat on the chair, legs crossed and flipping through a file. "Distracted were you?"

"I could say the same to you brother dear. That's twice I've had an uninvited visitor in my flat, despite your "security"."

"It was monitored." Mycroft answered smoothly.

Sherlock stopped tapping and Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft in surprise.

"You let them him go in?" Lestrade asked sounding horrified.

Sherlock didn't bother to turn. "Which of us were you testing?" he spat with fury.

Mycroft's unconcerned sigh was terribly loud, "Alerting James Moriarty to the surveillance will simply invite him to find other ways around it. I would prefer to not enter into an escalating game of cat and mouse."

Sherlock shoved away from the desk as he stood and turned to his brother, "He was in my flat!" he snarled.

"Yes. Taking a picture, leaving a present. Rooting around your room." Mycroft shook his head, still not looking up. "It's all rather childish isn't it?"

"Calvier was-" Sherlock broke off and turned to Lestrade. "Go away."

"It's my office."

"I'd leave Inspector. You'll get nothing out of him while he's having a tantrum anyway." Mycroft commented.

Lestrade glanced between the two as if he couldn't believe his bad luck at having ever stepped foot in the same room as them and then, with an exasperated movement, stormed out; slamming the door behind him pointedly.

"Your melodramatic attitude seems to be spreading."

"He was in the flat while John and I were…" Sherlock broke off, unsure how to phrase it.

"I apologise. Should I have blocked the door with roses and sunbeams? Perhaps left a polite note to advice Mr Calvier to try the following morning? Explained that your home is your sanctuary and the big bad thief should think twice about daring to open the door?" Mycroft's voice grew firmer. "Do not be precious Sherlock; I doubt the man pressed his ear to the door to hear your earnest whispers of ardour; your sex life is not of interest to a paid thief."

Sherlock threw the paperweight at Mycroft's head before he registered it was in his hand. As expected his brother merely moved his head with the same level of interest and concern he had shown when Sherlock had thrown balled up socks at him when they were children.

"I do not want Moriarty anywhere near-"

"You are being ridiculously foolish," Mycroft snarled suddenly looking up. "Your years away from John Watson had turned him into some idealistic damsel in your head. The man does not need you to protect him and neither of you need me to step in because someone is wandering around your flat. You are both capable of taking care of that yourselves and, had I jumped in, do you really think that Moriarty would have been satisfied with just ordering another snoop?"

A very long, very irritated huff erupted from the door.

John leaned against the frame, glaring at Mycroft with such utter annoyance that Sherlock almost felt jealous as the sight of John aiming that particular expression at anyone other than him.

Mycroft gazed heavenwards at the ceiling and closed the folder, "Get on with it then," he offered. "I'm sure you have some more choice words to add to Sherlock's sulk."

But John glanced between the two of them in a long, slow motion, then straightened himself and walked to the desk. He stopped at Sherlock's side, reached out, grabbed the statement, closed it and picked the file up.

Then, with a polite smile, he walked out.

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a look.

"That was mildly unexpected," Mycroft said after a minute.

Sherlock glared at him and then made his way to the door.

"You understand?" Mycroft's voice was uncharacteristically concerned. "The logic behind my motives. At no point were any of you at risk and I would like to keep it that way."

"Don't get sentimental brother. It doesn't become you." Sherlock said and risked a small glance at Mycroft to see his shoulders ease at the message.

It was probably as close as they'd ever come to agreeing at the end of a discussion.

* * *

><p>"Finished?" John asked as he sat with Lestrade at a desk in the quiet office.<p>

Stalking to a chair, Sherlock sat and picked up the mug shot of Calvier, "There's something wrong with the confession I assume?"

"We can't pin a connection to Moriarty on him." Lestrade sighed, "Or find any evidence of how Moriarty contacted him."

"You were expecting to?" Sherlock asked studying the black eye Calvier sported in the picture.

"We were hoping to find something that would help you," John muttered, scraping a hand over his face. "A lead…a number…something."

Sherlock glanced over at the man, wondering how on earth he could manage to be so surprising this many times in one night.

"I need coffee," he told Lestrade.

"Machines in the corridor, " Lestrade replied absently.

"Greg," John said quietly.

Lestrade glanced up, snapped out of the evidence descriptors at the tone. "Bloody hell," he muttered, "You are aware that you're both not meant to be here while I actually work here."

Sherlock shot him an icy stare, "Work?" he queried doubtfully.

"Sherlock," John muttered in a clear warning. "Just…please Greg, five minutes?"

Lestrade took a deep breath. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock chucked a twenty at him. "Go and find us descent coffee rather than the pig's swill that comes out of your machines."

"You're paying me to leave?"

"I'm paying you to get coffee," Sherlock corrected. "Unless you wished to try your hand at theft?"

Lestrade snatched the money up, "I'm not giving you change," he muttered as he walked away. "Call it hazard pay."

"How dense is the man if getting coffee is considered a hazard?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Has Mycroft gone?" John asked as he closed up what he'd been reading.

"Yes, but it doesn't mean he isn't watching." Sherlock stared at John's hand as it rested on the table temptingly. "How much did you hear?"

John shook his head, "I have had this argument with him," He said patiently, "You simply weren't here for rounds one, two and three."

Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow, "You managed three arguments with my brother in six days?"

John smiled slightly, "Living with you has been excellent practice."

Sherlock let loose a small chuckle, more out of relief than humour. "You seem to be taking it well."

John shrugged, "It makes an annoying amount of sense. It's cold," he added with an edge to his voice, "But damned practical."

"That's Mycroft," Sherlock said, edging his hand closer to John's. "You are aware that Calvier is a dead end. Moriarty probably wiped out anything useful the moment you dragged him out the door."

John flashed a smile at the memory, clearly proud of that. "It was worth a look. Anything that might speed this up is worth a look."

With careful precision Sherlock raised his index finger and let it slide over John's in a touch that was barely there and made his skin shiver. "There is however a man called Balan Janda that may provide some answers."

John's thumb opened away from his fingers and stroked the nail on Sherlock's. "Yeah?" he asked cautiously.

"He stumbled across a man who seems to have been caught in Moriarty's web. Unwillingly employed one might say, and is trying to help. He has taken it upon himself to be something of a mediator."

John pulled a face, "Try not to be your obnoxious self," he warned.

Clearing his throat Sherlock slipped his finger further along John's, "It may be…more productive if you were to talk to him."

The thumb paused. "Me?"

"I have been told I can occasionally irritate religious do-gooders."

John huffed out a laugh, "You? You're usually the soul of understanding." He sobered, "Or at least you usually don't give a toss about irritating people."

"He is trying to do a good thing. He should probably talk to a good man while doing it."

John clicked his jaw, "And while I'm doing this…?"

"There are some less good men I could talk to." Sherlock replied as the thumb started stroking again.

"So this is…an olive branch?"

"A start," Sherlock confirmed. "Though, if anything does happen, I feel I should remind you that Sikh's carry a small blade with them that may be useful in the event of an attack."

John glared at him, "I'm not using a religious symbol to…stab someone."

"For god's sake John, it was what the Kirpin was originally intended for."

"We'll just stick with me having a chat with him shall we?" John huffed in irritation, "Rather than planning my possible defensive methods against hypothetical attacks."

"As you wish," Sherlock glanced down at the files. And then up as John leaned forward and nudged their lips together carefully.

It was slow, achingly slow and careful as if Sherlock was the one who was injured.

As the thought occurred Sherlock pulled back, "How bad was the damage?"

"It's fine Sherlock-" John started in a patient tone.

Unconvinced Sherlock reached out for the hem of John's shirt.

"Sherlock!" John hissed looking horrified, "We're in the middle of an office used by police that do have night shifts."

"Who are out protecting our great city," Sherlock muttered, working on the buttons.

"I'm not striping!" John tried to pull away and then hissed when he moved.

"Of course you're not stripping; you're allowing a damage assessment."

John made some stuttering noise and then threw up his hands in defeat as Sherlock opened the shirt and tugged at the dressing.

"Lestrade had better have gone to Starbucks," John said as Sherlock peeled the tape away from the skin.

"No , he's gone to Nero's. He has some issue with Starbucks."

John huffed out a laugh, "How can you possibly know that?"

"Have you ever looked in his bin," Sherlock asked as he re-stuck the tape on John's belly to keep it close to hand when redoing the dressing.

"No," John said, as if that were the sane and obvious answer.

"That's why you miss things," Sherlock scolded gently. "He'll be another five minutes yet."

The wound was jagged. It looked as if John had been viciously scraped with glass-

_Broken glass it had said in the report._

"What did he use?"

"That jar on your third shelf with the dead rat in it."

Sherlock glanced at the wound, "Ah. I imagine that was unexpected."

"For him." John looked down at him with an expression that was almost tender. "I was half expecting something really disgusting."

Feeling a sudden surge of fondness Sherlock reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of John's neck. "You are a wonder John."

"Yes, well," John shifted seemingly a little uncomfortable and the compliment, "I've also had more needles shoved into me than I care to remember for this. You'll be glad to know that I don't have the plague!"

This time when Sherlock let out a laugh it was fully amused. He lifted his head and pressed a deep kiss against John's ear. "A complete wonder," he whispered.

An answering peck on his shoulder was all the reply he needed. "Go on then, get me dressed, otherwise your secret will be out," John said leaning back.

Sherlock paused, in the process of pressing the fabric against the wound again. "My secret?"

John nodded and then rolled his eyes, "I don't mind Sherlock."

"You're friends," Sherlock said slowly, "You and "Greg"."

"Yes?" John huffed and placed his own hand over the fabric before starting to replace the tape. "But he's your friend too and you work with him. It's up to you when he knows Sherlock."

Oh.

Sherlock pulled back as he watched John redress the wound, probably quicker then he would have managed. It was fascinating to watch how deft his hands were and how confident and calm he was about the situation.

"How much pain are you in?"

John glanced over at him warily, "It's fine Sherlock, unless your five year old daughter jabs an elbow into it."

"And…how much strenuous activity would you recommend you can participate in?"

John grinned at him, eye's lighting up in amusement, "Are you propositioning me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I can't believe the most polite sexual invitation I've ever had has just come from you!" John's chest danced as he tried not to laugh.

Sherlock leaned over and buttoned up John's remaining buttons. "When we get back home I intend to lay you out on my bed and suck your brains out through your cock. Do you think you could manage that?"

John's eyes widened in shock and Sherlock leaned back smugly as Lestrade's footsteps made their way over. John blinked at the sound, pupils blown.

"You wanker," he muttered.

"Not tonight John." Sherlock opened the file again, "Inspector I do hope that coffee is hot." He called out.

* * *

><p>They were both damp with sweat by the time they finished. And, despite the intoxicating sight of John's taut muscles and the way their lips captured each other's gasps, there was always something wondrous in the moments after; when John was relaxed and calm and willing to let Sherlock just explore.<p>

He would never, ever be able to get enough of this man.

Sherlock had scooted down the bed and allowed their legs to tangle together as he pressed a gentle kiss to John's belly. From earlier ministrations he knew that John was ticklish and glanced up at the hidden wound, wanting desperately to map out the developing scars and make them his.

Instead he kept to John's stomach, disliking the thought of John in pain.

The man had delicious hip bones though. It was enthralling to study the join of thigh and hip. To note the lines and muscles and sinews that pieced John together and gave him shape. To see how fine the hair became and how silky smooth the unmarred skin was at the join.

Under him John stirred and buried a gentle hand in his hair. "Do you never just enjoy your afterglow."

"I am." Sherlock nipped gently and felt John smile.

The hand in his hair became a gentle finger that brushed the strands away from his forehead.

"You'll run out of places to explore." John warned gently. "Should save some."

Sherlock smiled against the skin and dipped a hand behind John's knee stroking with a feather light touch, noting with victory as John's cock gave an interested twitch and John's breathe jolted.

"There are always area's for improvement," Sherlock said turning his head as he kissed down the inside of John's thigh, "New parameters, new predictions to test."

John shifted under him as if he couldn't decide to encourage or deter Sherlock.

"How many times have you managed in one night?" Sherlock asked licking a torturously slow path back up to John's hips.

"I…three." John gasped, wriggling a little. "That was years ago though."

Sherlock nuzzled up to John's throat, "New records to break."

Strangled laughter echoed above him, "You're going to kill me." John warned.

"Never," Sherlock caught an earlobe between his teeth as he dipped his hand down. John arched at the touch and then hissed in pain.

Instantly Sherlock backed off and glanced down at the dressing. A glance at John's face confirmed that he'd pulled one of the stitches.

Annoyed at himself Sherlock slid off John and tried to look at it but John caught his hands and sighed.

"It's fine," he said stroking a soothing hand over Sherlock's cheek. "Just…can you get a clean towel?"

Nodding Sherlock stood, throwing his dressing gown on and padding out to the kitchen. When he came back in John had pulled the dressing away and was studying the bleeding wound.

He didn't look at Sherlock but held his hand out for the towel, then pressed it against the wound carefully.

"It's the universe getting its own back," John commented suddenly.

"What?"

"On you." John raised his eyes to Sherlock's, "For being such a git and tormenting me with sex until I can barely remember my name. I should at least be allowed the chance to do the same back to you."

"Don't get glassed then," Sherlock snapped.

John's eyes narrowed and he held out his spare hand to Sherlock. Hating the feeling churning inside of him Sherlock sat back on the bed and allowed John's hand to cup the back of his head.

"I'm fine," he reiterated leaning over to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I promise."

"Stop moving about, you'll make it worse," Sherlock muttered, pressing John gently back onto the pillow.

"Yes Nurse Holmes." John teased.

Sherlock lifted the towel and John's hand to study the progress. The wound was bleeding much slower now and seemed to be easing up.

"You aren't allowed to die," he said suddenly.

It was childish. Pathetic. As if he could stop it just by saying it and yet, at that moment, he wished with everything he had it was true. Swallowing he avoided John's gaze, waiting for the light teasing tone that would try to soothe Sherlock by reminding him that it was highly unlikely John would die from this injury.

Instead though a steady hand touched his chin and with a gentleness that was Sherlock's undoing, nudged his face up until his eyes met John's.

"Ok." John said simply.

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded.

* * *

><p>PS - Ava is at Mrs Hudson's. She's a handy lady for both John and me!<p>

PPS - I visited a Sikh temple at school last week - most fascinating and enjoyable RE trip ever and (i'm so british) they had the best tea on the planet. No word of a lie. I would have happily drank that for the rest of my life!


	16. Interlude: Sherlock's Birthday

I'm not sure how many of you will notice but I have changed the chapter titles and put the story into parts. So the first part was John and Sherlock getting onto the same page. This is a kind of between piece that has very little actually happen plot wise. I will post the next chapter tomorrow and you might see why I have decided to break the story into parts.

And for those that were wondering Ch3 of Paved with Love takes place at the end of January, so we will get to it :)

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Sherlock's birthday<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>6<strong>**th**** January**

_Congratulations on surviving another year MH_

Sherlock sniffed and deleted the text, but raised wary eyes to his bedroom door where he could hear John and Ava puttering about as they both got ready for the day.

It would be just like Mycroft to tell John what today was.

There was no help for it though.

* * *

><p>Ava was spooning porridge into her mouth when Sherlock left the sanctuary of his room. "I got golden syrup," she informed him proudly. "Look," she tilted the bowl to show him the swirls of sugary syrup before scooping up another spoonful that seemed to have barely any actual porridge on it.<p>

"You'll be a joy for your teachers today, I'm sure," Sherlock accepted the tea that John passed him wordlessly.

Ava nodded, the sarcasm flying straight over her head. John shook his head, amused and ruffled Ava's hair as he went past, yawning as he went. His wound was almost healed and clearly causing him little difficulties now from the ease in which he stretched.

"Guess what?" Ava beamed up at him.

Sherlock eyed her up, suddenly alert, "I would rather not."

A slightly hurt look crossed Ava's little face and her shoulders drooped in disappointment. She jammed her spoon into the porridge without the usual attempt at trying to get as much sugar as possible.

She looked so crestfallen that the words spilled past his lips instantly, "What?"

And, as if he's said a magic word, she perked up again. "I'm going to Tommy Brown's house tonight. We're going to have chips."

"Tommy Brown? Sherlock asked.

"Her boyfriend," John teased as he sorted out his bag.

Ava's eye widened in shock and she whirled in her seat, sending porridge flying off her spoon, "Tommy Brown is NOT my boyfriend," she screeched with horror.

John's mouth pressed together as he tried not to laugh, "Are you sure?"

Ava turned appealing eyes up to Sherlock, "Tell him Tommy Brown isn't my boyfriend," she pleaded.

"Don't be mean John," Sherlock said, seeing her distressed look.

John's eyes widened and the amusement just grew, "Seriously?" he asked Sherlock.

Unimpressed, Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a sip of tea as he sat himself down opposite Ava who was scowling into her porridge.

There was no indication that John had anything planned. But that was the most irritating thing about his current communication with Mycroft who still remained one of the few people in the world who could spring a genuine surprise upon Sherlock.

The expression on Ava's face changed from sulking to sneakiness.

"Daddy," she said in far too sweet a voice, "Is Sherlock your boyfriend?"

John froze in shock. "I…"

Sherlock sat back in his chair, sipping at the tea and looking at John in polite enquiry. John darted his gaze between Ava and Sherlock, the thoughts running through the expressions on his face almost as quickly as they did his mind.

"Yes," John said suddenly, "I…yes."

Ava nodded to herself as if she'd suspected that all along. "Tommy Brown isn't my boyfriend." She added, "Sherlock's clever; Tommy ate a piece of the car park because someone told him it was black treacle."

"You're encouraging her to date that?" Sherlock asked John disparagingly.

"Ate the car park?" John asked looking unimpressed.

Ava nodded, "Some of it broke. Mrs Parker says it was the snow…" Ava didn't look convinced at the idea. "And Sean Tenner told him it was treacle and then laughed at him."

"Children are idiots," Sherlock muttered.

Ava nodded solemnly.

* * *

><p>John tossed an envelope at him when he walked back into the flat after lunch.<p>

Sherlock turned his head to study the envelope sitting next to him and turned back to the lap top. "Really?" he asked with some disapproval.

John dumped the bag on the table, "It's not a card," he said sounding defensive and slightly nervous.

"John-"

"Just open it," John muttered, "Or do that thing where you figure out what it is without opening it."

"These aren't the blood test results," Sherlock commented as he glanced at the envelope again.

"I suppose it's not even worth asking how the hell you knew about that?" A slight blush was creeping up John's neck from under his shirt.

"They were negative?" Sherlock asked, finishing up the paragraph he'd been reading about heavy metal poisoning, feeling vaguely more interested in their STI tests than this attempt at a present.

"Yes," John said slowly. "But…still. Open it."

Sherlock sighed and picked up the envelope.

"You can't tell what it is?" John asked curiously.

"It's a piece of paper with a present on it." Sherlock turned it over in his hands, then looked at John. "It's not a voucher or money, you know me too well to feel comfortable with giving that, although in truth it would probably make you less nervous. But you are nervous so…" Sherlock broke off, feeling slightly touched that John had made an effort.

"So?" John prompted.

Sherlock snapped his attention back to the envelope, "So it's not a traditional present, it's a risk." He studied John.

Suddenly interested he turned the envelope over. "You haven't spent money on this?"

"Just pride." John stayed where he was, "Although there was an unsubtle hint at a donation so maybe that counts."

Donation.

Museum?

"Evidence?" he asked.

John rolled his eyes, "Open the damned thing," he muttered.

"Evidence from a case…an unsolved case? It would be the only interesting type of evidence."

"It's not the Ripper or anything," John squirmed.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, "Of course not, far too obvious."

John let out an unsteady breath, "Of course," he said sarcastically, "And people might notice if that exhibit was missing a few items."

"A few?"

"Two," John conceded. "God knows why I bothered giving you the envelope." He added with a shake of his head. "The case notes and forensic reports, such as they were in the thirties."

Sherlock glanced up at John, feeling a sudden thrill of delight.

"The Wallace case?" he asked hopefully.

John suddenly smiled, clearly relieved. "Yes."

Sherlock pulled the envelope open.

"Sherlock it doesn't say anything-"

"Shush, I'm reading." He glanced at the inventory, soaking up the language used and enjoying the sight of the words in black and white.

"The collection is being moved and is being taken off display for a while." John shifted, "The deal is that you can rotate what you look at but you can only have two at a time. And if you accidently "lose it" I'll be flayed alive by your brother and the director of the collection."

Sherlock nodded, distracted. "It really would have been better to have the actual items rather than the reports first. You can be so easily swayed by opinion before seeing the facts."

"You're welcome," John said pointedly.

"Yes."

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Never mind."

* * *

><p>Half an hour later Sherlock snapped his attention from simultaneously plotting the order he would review the Wallace case items and how to get a "business meeting" with Moriarty's "finance manager" Karen Yarrow, to the bag John had brought in with him.<p>

Slowly he got up and with one finger opened up the plastic bag.

"You understand I can't be held responsible for this?" he said carefully. "You produced these things in entirely the wrong order."

"Did I?" John asked from where he was sat with a biography.

Sherlock made his way to the windows and snagged the curtains firmly shut, then locked both doors.

John's only response was to calmly flick the lamp on next to him as Sherlock shut out most of the light.

"Here," Sherlock breathed into his ear from behind the chair.

"I'm reading. You do what you like." John replied with the faintest challenging lilt to his voice.

"You won't win this game." Sherlock let his hand slide down John's front, undoing the buttons as he went.

John turned a page. "Mm," he said non-committedly, even as his pulse hammered away at his throat.

"Tell me what the book's about," he whispered as he nuzzled John's neck and tried to catch the thumping beat at his throat with his teeth.

John took a deep breath, "Well, it's a man…who um…I have absolutely no idea."

Sherlock grinned, "Dull is it?"

"I think it's your brother's idea of a joke." John whined. "Some army general whose life revolves around how much he can spend on horses and guns."

"John," Sherlock warned, "We discussed this."

"You asked." John let his head tilt to the side, allowing Sherlock better access.

Sherlock pulled away and walked around the chair, kneeling on front of John and placing the book to the side, "I can accidently spill corrosives on it if you like?"

John grinned, "and you claim to not be heroic," he muttered as Sherlock pulled him forward for a kiss.

There was a wonderful leisure to the kiss. It wasn't as if it were late at night and they were short for time. It was barely one in the afternoon and Sherlock had all day.

Which was perfect for what he had in mind.

John's breath hitched in surprise when the handcuffs clasped around his wrists, pushing them behind his back.

"These are terribly flimsy," Sherlock muttered as he removed John's belt. "If you intended on using them on me I fully suggest liberating ones used by the actual police."

"Of course you're an expert on handcuffs," John leaned back carefully, trying to find a comfortable position. "You aren't planning on keeping me in these all the way through are you?"

"It's my birthday," Sherlock replied snootily as he peeled John' jeans down his legs. "I can do what I want."

"You had better remember these birthday rules when it comes to mine." John panted.

Sherlock peered into the bag thoughtfully, "You were rather thorough" he said with some approval.

"I try to keep life interesting," John commented as he watched Sherlock's hand hover over the items in the bag, trying to decide what to select first.

Sherlock nodded, "Indeed. You are aware that Mrs Hudson is out for the day?"

"Mm, all-expense paid trip to Chartwell with her sister." John grinned.

"Very thorough," Sherlock approved. "I'll make you a deal, I'll let you out of these on one condition."

John looked at him questioningly, even as his eyes fluttered at Sherlock's gentle strokes.

Kneeling up Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's ear. "Scream for me."

* * *

><p>Somehow they made it to the bed after. John was slick with sweat from Sherlock's earlier torment and Sherlock was still seeing stars from the sheer ecstasy of it all.<p>

Or possibly from the lazy blowjob John was now giving him.

He did not whimper when John pulled away, and trailed his mouth back up to Sherlock's. There was a determined glint in John's eye as he smoothed both hands down Sherlock's arms and then laid siege to Sherlock's mouth.

His mind tumbled into sensation as they kissed and touched and then-

"John," he pulled back as much as he could as John slowly sunk onto him. "I-" He had no idea what he wanted to say. Instead he just watched his lovers face carefully, trying to gauge John's reaction and keeping utterly still to allow John the chance to adjust and set the pace.

"You really are lazy sometimes," John groaned as he started to rock.

In a move he had once had perfected, Sherlock sat and twisted them, enjoying John's surprised yelp even as he slipped out.

He needed to practice that more.

He pushed back in as John frowned and adjusted, unused to the position and movement he would need to make. Mindful of the almost healed injury Sherlock rearranged and pushed until he was at the perfect angle.

He needed to see John. Needed to watch the surprised pleasure and curious gasps. Needed to watch the eyes as they widened and closed with sensation. He had to watch and feel the adams apple bob and dip as John swallowed Sherlock's kisses along with his own gasps and murmurs of desire. It was a physical craving to watch the spread of heat as it pooled in John' cheeks and dampened his hair again. And after, to hear that wonderful firm mouth whisper broken promises of love as John tightened around him, was more than enough for Sherlock to crash after him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock trailed a hand over the curve of John's arse as they lay side by side.<p>

"You can go straight to hell with that," John murmured.

"You said three times," Sherlock pointed out,tracing a lazy pattern with his finger.

"Mm, well I'm feeling decidedly more impressed by her ability than by mine at the moment," John muttered.

Concerned Sherlock slipped down the bed.

"What are you-" John yelped and danced away from him. "Sherlock?"

"I'm checking." Sherlock scowled, "For damage."

"Oh for-Sherlock for once this year can we lie in bed and not have you complete a "damage check"? I'm fine. I'm a doctor, I know I'm fine."

"Don't be such an infant," Sherlock muttered, gripping John's hips, "And stop squirming."

He could hear John huff, "Well?"

"A little inflamed." Sherlock sat up, "We should have used more lube,"

Turning, John fixed him with a steely glare, "Have you seen the state of the living room?"

* * *

><p>"I am not tidying this up," Sherlock announced as they paused at the doorway. "It's my birthday."<p>

"I should have taken that bet with Mycroft." John stared at the sight in front of him. "He bet I couldn't even you make you admit there was anything of note about today." He let out a sigh, "Could have used the money to pay for a cleaner."

"I don't think this proves your point though," Sherlock added as he stepped over his shirt. "I'd be amazed if any lube actually made it onto you from the state of this."

"You were in charge of the bottle." John picked up the handcuffs carefully.

"I was distracted."

* * *

><p><strong>7<strong>**th**** January**

"You're sure you'll push the swing properly," Ava huffed as they closed the front door behind them.

"Yes," John said sounding slightly annoyed by the repeated question as he bent to slip her mittens on to her hands.

"How do you manage to fail to push a swing?" Sherlock asked pausing to let them get ready.

"By all means Sherlock, show us what an expert you are when we get there," John offered pulling Ava's hat onto her head. She looked so bundled up against the weather it would be a miracle if she managed to sit down on the swing.

Bored and wanting to get on with it so he could move onto Bethany Radcliffe after picking up a few choice items close to the park, Sherlock looked down the street.

"Wild afternoon yesterday?" Liam from next door asked as he fiddled with his keys.

John went red. Utterly and completely red and looked up at Sherlock in horror.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

_New shirt, unremarkable unlike usual choices of clothes. Trying to be indistinct so he can get away with wearing the same shirt twice. Wedding ring dulled, love bites on his neck but very close together as if covering one up with the other. Tired, always holding onto his phone now, and slipping his hand in his pocket to make sure it's there._

"It's what happens when you only have one partner on the go." Sherlock snarled.

Liam paled and glanced at his front door.

"Discretion," Sherlock continued, "Would be most beneficial for you."

Ava frowned as the man practically threw himself inside the door.

"He's a married one," She informed Sherlock. "Mrs Hudson said."

"Too harsh?" he asked John as he stood.

"Not really," John grinned. "Park?"

* * *

><p>See! Not much happened!<p>

The Wallace case, for those interested is the first case in British Legal History where the conviction of the prime suspect was overturned. The case was never solved and there were quite a few oddities that have made it the subject of a few novels. It took place in liverpool in 1931 and, if you're interested then look up William Herbert Wallace who was the husband and prime suspect.

Next part: John and Sherlock start to work together to dismantle Moriarty's organisation while dealing with Mycroft's version of help, Lestrade's attempts to feed them linked cases and Ava...well, being Ava!

PS: Has anyone seen katrinDepp's spoof vid with Sherlock, and Moriarty having a strange obsession with Justn Bieber? I died of laughter this morning! Sigh I am sogoing to be using up my broadband allowance for the month before the end of the week again!


	17. Part 2: Chapter One

NOTE: I am not going to pretend that I know diddly squat about the army! I have however been reading a few fantastic fanfics from people who clearly do know what they are talking about – Footloose's** Loaded March** series in the Merlin fandom and** Two Two One Bravo Baker** series in the Sherlock universe, so that is kind of my extent of knowledge and have decided to "give it a go." I will do a bit more research before we delve into it fully!

Apologies now!

PS The fics that I have mentioned are brilliantly fantastic! If you haven't read them then you must – they're on archive of your own.

* * *

><p><strong>19<strong>**th**** January**

Standing in the middle of 221c, Sherlock looked down at the pictures and notes that he'd spread across the floor. The light from the window poured over the photographs and pained a pattern of shadows. The long flowing curtain that had previously floated down from the window was in a balled up heap in the corner after it had disrupted his work within the first five minutes.

Behind him John sat against the wall, one knee drawn up as he idly toyed with a ball of string and squinting at the photographs in hesitant apprehension.

"Like that?" John said sounding doubtful.

"Yes." Sherlock turned to examine the web he had just tried to explain to John and felt a small pleasure at having Moriarty's laminated face under his shoe.

"And you can't just put it on the wall?"

Sherlock shook his head, "It won't work. I need layers."

John's heavy sigh was audible. "You just want to cut the strings as we go," he muttered.

"Don't be an idiot. We'll have to change the colour of the string; if we do succeed in cutting a connection we cannot just erase it. You never know what these things will be helpful."

"I'm sure you'll remember-"

"This isn't for me." Sherlock studied the pictures once more to ensure they were in the clearest order. "I need the rest of you to be able to keep track."

John stood slowly, toeing off his shoes before he walked over their information. "Sod off then," he said easily. "You'll just annoy me if you stay here." He added with a pleasant smile.

Sherlock glanced at the upward curving mouth before looking back at his ordering of the photographs and files. "I'll need to correct you-"

"Exactly," John stopped at the sight of Moriarty's screen cap under Sherlock's shoe with an amused twitch and then glanced up at the surrounding walls. "Besides if it's for us "normal people", then it might be best if I attempt to make it understandable." He clicked his jaw to one side, clearly studying the walls for a good location to fix his first nail.

"But it needs to be correct." Sherlock frowned, watching John walk over to the chimney thoughtfully.

"Trust me," John, then grinned turning back, "I'm a doctor."

"I hardly see what that has to do with this."

John shook his head and then looked pointedly at the door. "Go."

* * *

><p><strong>20<strong>**th**** January**

"Noah Graves," The man reached out to shake Sherlock's hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

_Tall, built l__ike a rugby player, obvious security background. Mycroft recruited him ten…no eleven years ago. Odd jobs. Not fond of technology. Sister had a drug problem, he still thinks she uses. Father was in the force; death or an unfair dismissal kept him from follo__wing, hard to tell which._

Sherlock stared at the hand on front of him. "I doubt that," he said, pushing past.

Graves didn't look surprised, "Your brother warned me about you."

"It's a wonder he has time to get anything done." Sherlock eyed the two others at the table thoughtfully. Both male, both with military backgrounds and starting to stand. "Let me guess, Joseph Hammond and Robert Ashcroft." He said nodding to each in turn.

"Lucky guess," Hammond muttered.

Sherlock dismissed him. "You," he said focusing on Ashcroft, "Served with John Watson."

"Yeah, he was my captain for a bit," Ashcroft was still shooting him curious looks. "I was his comms man,"

"If we're done?" Graves butted in. "Can we get to it?"

Sherlock threw himself into the nearest chair, "You've lost Moran," he said with a sullen frown.

"We haven't lost-" Hammond started to say.

"He had disappeared from our radar." Graves huffed. "Vanished for months, in fact the last recorded sighting of Moran was given by you in December at the Drake Hotel."

"Had?" Sherlock enquired.

"We've picked up a trail again. Nothing concrete but we're working on it."

"And Moran's contacts?" Sherlock asked, "They are still running things?"

"Can't fucking stop 'em," Hammond muttered. "Every time we shut down one deal another replaces it."

"This is Henry Grant," Graves pushed a picture over to Sherlock. "We took him in in October, he was in Moran's inner circle; the first one we've really gotten to."

Sherlock studied the photograph and noticed the bruises, the shape of the hands, the watch and the stitches for the wound at his head.

And remembered the cuts on John's hand, back when they'd first seen each other again; cuts that had come from a fight with one of Moran's men.

"Took him?" he asked mockingly, disliking the implication that they were taking credit for John's unknowing work. "You scraped him off the pavement; it was hardly a great take down."

Graves glanced up, "I wasn't aware Mr Holmes had told you how we found him."

"In passing," Sherlock toyed briefly with the idea of demanding to see Grant and then dismissed it with some effort. The injuries John had given out were far worse than what he had received all those months ago. "Has Grant talked?"

Graves shook his head, "Not really, apparently, compared to Moran and Moriarty, we aren't that much of a threat. He's let the odd thing slip every so often. But he's been out of the game for too long to be useful now."

"And what he has said?" Sherlock asked as he flipped the photograph over to scan the contents of the intake sheet.

"A few contacts, people of note. Hints to deals and safe-houses, that sort of thing." Out of the corner of his eye he could see Graves glance at the other two. "Your brother wants us to liaise. "

"No, he wants me to actually do something useful with this," Sherlock turned the page again to the transcripts.

"What was that?" Ashcroft hissed as Graves leaned back with a tightness that he'd been trying to resist from the moment Sherlock stepped in.

"You've clearly failed to do anything useful with this," Sherlock continued to scan the transcript. "My brother only tolerates failure for so long."

Hammond was leaning over him approximately two seconds slower than Sherlock had anticipated.

"And what the fuck do you know about arms deals?" Hammond snarled, "Or any of this? You're just another stuck up bureaucrat who thinks-"

Sherlock couldn't help that snort that erupted. "Bureaucrat?" He turned to his brother who was standing in the doorway with a reigned look of irritation on his face. "You have morons working for you."

"He's a consultant," Mycroft said stepping in as Hammond stepped back and to attention. "And a rude one at that. My apologies."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock smiled up at Hammond before refocusing on what he'd been reading.

* * *

><p>The radio was blaring as Sherlock paused at the door to 221c. How the man managed to get anything done with that noise was beyond him.<p>

The room had been transformed. It stunk of bleach and disinfectant and had a much better light now. The string crisscrossed the room like a spider's web; circles that were kept in place by string that ran the length of the room.

Fascinated Sherlock touched a hand to the one closest to him. Raymond Setter was a retired sniper from the cold war who now seemed to run a firm of assassins. From his place on the web a string hung down to create another circle underneath of those he employed.

"This is remarkably organised."

John glanced over at him as he sat trying the string in some strange order, ready to hang it. "I knew that army training would impress you one day," he grinned.

"Speaking of, do you remember a Robert Ashcroft?"

John paused, "Yeah Comms man. Bloody wizard with codes and tech; I could half believe he'd get a reception from a paper clip. He was moved after it became obvious he was wasted with us."

So much untapped knowledge. Sherlock trailed a finger along some string as he made his way towards John, noting the slightly different patterns to John's speech. Less polite and more brisk.

"He called me a toffee nosed prick," Sherlock informed John.

"Did you deserve it?" John asked, eyes flashing as he caught the references that Sherlock had spoken to Ashcroft.

"Mycroft seemed to think so." Sherlock stared at the sight of Moriarty, surrounded by four faces that made up his inner circle.

He was about to add one more.

John smiled, "Well, I've heard you called worse and deserve worse." He looked up finally. "Why isn't Ashcroft on active duty."

"He is. He's preparing to be part of a new team with specific instructions to take down ex Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"Moran?" John's attention snapped to Sherlock with a little too much surprise.

"You know him?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes. John was showing too much interest for any other possibility.

"Briefly," John looked slightly uncomfortable. "Had a few shooting lessons off him. He was…good."

"He was a sniper." Sherlock said, remembering the few times he had caught a glimpse of Moran.

John put down the string and stood up, holding out his hand. Sherlock held out the file slowly.

"What do you know about snipers?" John asked flicking through the folder.

"They shoot people." Sherlock replied woodenly and John briefly flashed a smile at the attempt at humour before his jaw clenched.

"Most need a spotter. You need to know the wind, the conditions like the back of your hand. Most need time to line up a shot, make those minor adjustments." John shook his head, "A mate of mine had some talent in it. He went as a spotter for Moran. He said it was just plain fucking scary."

"Why?"

"He didn't adjust." John pulled the photo out and started to clip it to the inner circle without being told. "He just shot."

"You're impressed by him." Sherlock commented.

John nodded as he started to go through the rest of the folder. "He was gone by the time I made rank, went with the mercenaries once his tour was up, but…I was a kid. And this…legend wanted to give me some tips. Told me it was a waste having me as a doctor when I could shoot the way I could. In fact I think he said that being a doctor got in the way, that I'd never be as good as I could be because of it," John smiled vaguely at the memory. "I don't think I would have ever been on his level but…" John trailed off, mouth firming as he opened up more of the pictures.

"You know the names."

John nodded slowly, "By reputation only, a few mercenaries in the area, a few local buyers and sellers, that sort of thing." John let out a deep breath, "Jesus, Moriarty can pick them!"

"Moran tried to recruit you." Sherlock said catching the speculative look in John's eyes.

John tilted his head as if in thought, "Maybe, he was always one of those people that knew everything about everyone and seemed to have his, I don't know… favourites? I burned my bridges with him years ago. He kept making all these comments about my medical background. I was twenty six and figured I knew best." John tilted his head at that, "I still think I knew best," he added and then smiled at the memory with some embarrassment. "I lost my temper. He didn't bother with me after that." He looked around and nodded to himself, taking a deep, steadying breath.

Sherlock studied him, "Are you alright?" he asked with a careful touch to John's arm.

John glanced up in surprise, "Yeah, it just feels more real all of a sudden." He stared at the web. "I'm remembering the times when you chasing after Golem was considered a dangerous day." He shook his head, "It's useful, seeing it like this."

Sherlock tapped the picture of Moriarty, "You realised that there are seventy two pictures in this room."

John nodded very slowly. "Yeah. Well, thirty six each is better than you trying to take on all seventy two on your own."

Sherlock nodded and leaned his forehead against John's, still not entirely sure he agreed with that statement.

It was John who pulled away first with a suspicious look, "I haven't put Irene Adler's picture up yet. Is it in the file?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Her movements remain a mystery, as does her connection with Moriarty. It's not exactly clear what he wants from her now or how they came to be in contact again."

"Has twitter not helped?" John asked snidely.

"If she is building up her network again she is being unusually quiet about it," Sherlock ignored John's comment as he studied the web.

"You think there's another connection?" John's voice drifted to him quietly.

Snapping himself away from his thoughts Sherlock peered out the window, "There isn't enough information to make any decisive conclusions." He said and then, catching something, felt his mouth twitch with amusement.

"Are they watching us?" John asked from behind.

"No, I was merely watching your daughter attempt to eat a jam donut in one mouthful."

John let out an irritated noise, "I have told Mrs Hudson time and time again to stop buying treats on the way home from school," There was the sound of string against string as John continued on with his task. "I swear; it goes in one ear and out the other."

Sherlock smiled as he watched Ava look up at Mrs Hudson, her face and hands smeared with sticky jam, and grin.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock turned back to John with an enquiring look.

John met it with a strange expression as he glanced between Sherlock and the window, his mouth softening into a brief smile.

"Make your corrections," he said kindly. "And try not to be a complete dick while doing it."

Nodding Sherlock started to move the pegs.

* * *

><p><strong>22nd January<strong>

"Got a case for you," Lestrade said, his voice blurred by the dreadful reception.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the web and at the post it note system John had developed, which in Sherlock's opinion was a waste of time because the damn things tended to fall off without rhyme or reason.

He scanned the weaves and circles until his eyes landed on a few possibilities.

"What?"

"Young girl, looks like she'd been kidnapped and it went wrong. Girl's been ID'd as Julia Sammonds, daughter of Judge Basil Sammonds."

Sherlock traced a finger until he landed on Katy Roberts, a club owner and drug dealer in her fifties whose son had been sentences by Judge Sammonds three weeks ago.

"Where?"

* * *

><p>"I don't get why you want these," Lestrade said as they made their way down to the alleyway. "We've never been able to pin anything on Roberts before and it's not exactly a mystery."<p>

"You've never had me look at the cases before," Sherlock replied and then stopped, noting who else was there. "Why do you insist of having this idiot everywhere you go?"

"Play nice," Lestrade hissed.

"Why? You stole from me this month."

"I didn't give you your change," Lestrade nodded to a detective as they started towards the body and Anderson who was kneeling beside it. "It's hardly the same thing."

"What's freak doin' here?" Donovan asked as she walked away from questioning the restaurant owner who had found the body. "This ain't the kinda thing that interests him."

"I wasn't aware you were so attentive to my interests," Sherlock replied, glaring down at Anderson. "Get out the way."

Anderson glared up at Lestrade. Sherlock didn't need to look to know that Lestrade was indicating with his head that it would be easier if Anderson just got up and left them to it.

"You've got the other cases that she's been a suspect in?" Sherlock asked, bending to the body as the two detectives moved away to continue with their work.

"Suspect would be a bit much," Lestrade leaned against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Gut instinct would be better." He sighed as he stared down at the girl's face. "The vic's been gone four days."

"No." Sherlock looked at her fingers, studied the bruises and the state of her clothes. "No, less than that."

Lestrade huffed, "Well she's not been in contact with anyone for four days."

"See how accurate you can be when you try?" Sherlock said, studying her cardigan.

"You need to tread carefully with this Sherlock." Lestrade warned. "Her father's a judge, if he thinks that the case is being handled-"

"I am trying to get the killer behind bars, what possible insult could he take from that?"

Lestrade crouched down next to him. "Imagine for a moment it was Ava."

Sherlock snapped his eyes up to the industrial bin, suddenly rigid.

"And some arrogant tosser came in, throwing out ideas and enjoying the puzzle more than anything else and playing a game with some shadowy figure that had nothing to do with your life." Lestrade's voice was deathly firm in the evening quiet. "And was clearly willing to do anything to get to that figure, even throw the case?"

Sherlock turned his head, annoyed with the implication. "I cannot get to Moriarty unless I get untangle the knots he's surrounded himself in. Roberts is a big knot. I will not "throw the case"."

Lestrade threw up his hands, "I give up." He said standing. "Just try to be polite."

Sherlock tilted his head, studying Lestrade's nervous stance and brief glances towards the police tape, then let out an aggrieved huff, "He's coming here, isn't he: The judge."

"The father," Lestrade corrected. "but yeah, don't piss off the judge." He shook his head, clearly annoyed.

"We aren't in a courtroom Lestrade; he can't have me arrested for contempt. And you should not allow family members to tour crime scenes."

Lestrade's glare could have stripped steel. "I shouldn't let anyone "tour" crime scenes. Or do you not want me to call next time?"

"Now you're just being petty," Sherlock frowned at her shoes and then twisted himself to get a better look at the soles.

"Oh, that's a good position for you to be in when he gets here." Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained sigh.

* * *

><p>"Lestrade threw me off the crime scene," Sherlock complained as he walked into the flat.<p>

"I've got nits!" Ava announced as he did and in an excited tone that suggested it was the most brilliant news on the planet.

Behind her John leaned his head back onto the sofa cushion with a pained chuckled, "How am I sane?" he asked the ceiling.

"Nits?" Sherlock asked, calculating the distance between John's head and Ava's. "Get rid of them," he appealed to John.

John waved a tiny black comb in the air with a pointed look of exasperation and then started combing through Ava's damp hair again. "Why were you thrown off a crime scene?"

"Lestrade decided to make it into a family gathering." Sherlock threw himself into his chair. Uncomfortable he dug behind him until he found the shoe that was digging into his back and petulantly threw it into the kitchen.

"His family?" John asked, frowning as he came across a knot in Ava's hair.

"No, the victims. And apparently you aren't meant to refer to the victim as a victim when the father of the victim is stomping around and making a nuisance of himself."

John glanced up at him, "No, that probably isn't a good idea," he said, as if it should have been obvious.

"Well it's hardly going to change anything," Sherlock stared at his violin that was behind John and Ava. "She'd remain dead no matter what I called her."

John seemed to accept that approach, even if it was clear he didn't quite agree. He shifted, obviously uncomfortable on the floor as Ava sat in between his legs with her back to him. He had a roll of kitchen paper laid out and would wipe the comb on it between brushes.

"Stop putting your shoes in my chair," Sherlock said to Ava, spotting her curious look.

"If I promise, can I have a biscuit?"

"No" John said at the same time that Sherlock said "Yes." Over her head they stared at each other.

"You should clear up after yourself without needing a treat," John stated firmly, wincing as he wiped the comb and at the little black dots that were deposited. He turned the comb on its side and pressed firmly down, killing the tiny parasites. "And if you want to give her a biscuit, you'll be bending over close to give her one."

Disgusted at the idea of getting that close to the creatures Sherlock slumped further into his chair glaring at the kitchen.

"Who lets the father wander around the crime scene," he exploded a minute later.

"Possibly the same person who lets you wander around a crime scene." John replied. Moments later Ava yet out a pathetic whimper and John muttered an apology under his breath.

"A whole evening of information, wasted because a judge decides to complain that I'm not "sensitive" enough." Sherlock turned to look at John, "Really, if it were your child, what would you care about: sensitivity or results." He folded his arms with a huff.

Then ran his words through again in his head when John said nothing.

Perhaps that had been a bit not good.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just ask me that," John hissed after a moment.

Sherlock looked over at the pair of them, at Ava's confused little face as she tried to look between them, despite having John behind her and the comb in her hair. She looked so tiny with him sat around her. And John was glaring into her hair, his hand holding a section of wet blond curls close to her head so that his harsh strokes of the comb wouldn't pull at her.

There were ways of fixing this, he knew that now. Glancing at the tissue, he stared at the smeared black dots and then uncurled himself from the sofa. As he walked he dumped his scarf on the table and removed his coat, folding it onto the edge of the chair.

Retrieving what he was after he returned to the living room and, with a last, pained glance at the tissue, sat on the floor opposite sit them, holding out a custard cream to Ava.

John threw him a baffled look. Ava, on the other hand, lit up at the sight.

"No more shoes on my seat," Sherlock warned as he reached for the biscuit.

Ava nodded solemnly as her little hand closed around it. Behind her John was rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"How did this," Sherlock indicated to Ava's hair, "Happen?"

Ava shrugged as she started nibbling the top layer of biscuit. "Fiona Adams has them. Everyone knows that," she said as if Sherlock should be fully informed of the gossip at the school.

"Don't be mean Ava," John said slowly, "You shouldn't listen to the parents on the playground."

There was a tightness to his jaw as he said it and Sherlock narrowed his eyes questioningly. But John just tilted his chin at Ava and then shook his head.

Ava pouted as she was scolded, "But it's true," she complained, even as she started to lick at the custard filling. "But she looked lonely in the Wendy House."

John looked down at her with sudden fondness. "That's very nice of you Ava." He said approvingly.

"'Specially as everyone knows she has nits." Ava agreed happily, popping the now soggy base into her mouth.

John groaned with frustration.

* * *

><p>"Is Lestrade going to text you with the results?" John asked as he came down from putting Ava to bed.<p>

"I believe the Judge will be keeping him rather busy," Sherlock glared at his silent phone. "I'll have a look later."

"Tonight?"

"He has to sleep eventually," Sherlock muttered and then watched John gather up Ava's slippers. "What was the problem? Earlier with the gossip on the playground. I'm sure it's fascinating." he drawled with exaggerated emphasis.

John breathed out and sat in his chair opposite Sherlock. "Us."

"Us?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "What about us?"

John raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Oh, that." Sherlock returned his chin to the violin. "Do they really have nothing better to do?" he stared to draw the bow across the strings.

He watched John as he played, noting the frown and the worried set of the shoulders as he started to tidy the kitchen. Slowly he seemed to relax from the soothing music that Sherlock played, until he ended up sat on the chair opposite with a book.

And, when Sherlock put the violin down and stood to leave, John tangled a hand in his shirt and pulled him down for a kiss.

"Be nice," he murmured as pulling back.

"Mm," Sherlock followed his lips, enjoying the ease that they could do this now. His hand came up to cup John's cheek as John turned it into sweet little nips and pecks.

"You need to go," John pulled back properly this time.

With a nod, Sherlock pressed a last kiss to his lips and left.

* * *

><p>I hope you all enjoyed! Feels weird to be writing a plot that isn't Ava's battle with her spellingsteachers/bullies/etc and isn't just Sherlock and John, will they/won't they! :P

PS - i just wrote Sherlock and John's pov for Paved with Love's "bang, bang" chapter and i'm not sure what to do with John's. You sort of need to see his pov to understand what happened fully - although i suppose i could have him and Sherlock discuss it after but i'm aware that sometimes I dn't explain things fully as it is without deliberating leaving a hole in the plot as events happen...i'm debating between that/putting John's pov into this fic just as a one off/ updating it to John's "When his hour will come". Any thoughts or ideas on that would be appreciated.


	18. Part 2: Chapter Two

**Warning**: Homophobic comments and dealing with them. Sherlock's attitude is sort of based on the attitude and conversation I had with a guy while working behind the bar for a gay wedding - which was kind of an eye opener! That said, my manager, also gay, disliked the attitude so I guess i'm also warning for a rather one sided approach!

Thank you all for the lovely reviews and alerts/favourites. Over 200 reviews now - eek! Yay :D

Just as a note - I have posted a fic **The Bet** which is a silly follow up to "Paved with Love" if any one is interested :)

* * *

><p><strong>24th January<strong>

"I do not need a baby sitter," Sherlock huffed as they sat in the back of the taxi together.

"Mycroft thinks you do,"

"Oh Mycroft thinks the world needs a baby sitter, it's his job after all." Sherlock stared out at the passing traffic that flowed through London in the darkened evening. "I had to wait all day for this meeting."

"Well I had to apologise for the amount of times my text alert went off, so I'd say we're even."

Sherlock smiled faintly into the reflection on the window and then turned back to John. "You surely can't be complaining about all of them?" he asked smoothly.

John's eyes flickered up to his from where he'd been typing a text on his phone. "We're in a taxi and going to a meeting with your brother." He warned, "I am not getting into trouble because you're bored."

Sherlock arched back against the seat to find a better position and stared ahead as he slid a hand on to John's knee. "I'm not bored." He said watching the cab driver's head. Slowly he started to trail one finger along the seams of John's jeans.

"Don't do this," John warned in an even, lilting voice.

"Why? Is that a challenge or a threat?" Sherlock turned his attention back to John and raised an eyebrow.

"Hmm, because Captain Joseph Hammonds is a homophobic idiot at the best of times without us walking in, looking as if we've just shagged in the back of a taxi," John replied still not looking up from his text.

"And that bothers me because?" Sherlock asked frowning.

John sighed and slid his phone into his pocket, having finished his text to Mrs Hudson about Ava's homework that the little brat had insisted she was allowed to put in the bin. "Because the whole point of delaying this was so that it wouldn't escalate into a shouting match again."

"I didn't shout," Sherlock muttered, insulted at the idea. "And if he chooses to be a moron then that's his problem; as long as he isn't equally idiotic about Moran's contacts." Sherlock paused considering, "Though I've seen no evidence to indicate that is the case."

John turned his head sharply, "It really doesn't bother you? That people can be homophobic?"

"I never care what people think," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "present company excluded of course."

"Jesus, if that wasn't a proclamation of undying devotion I don't know what is!" John sat back.

His hand twitched.

Sherlock eyed it, his interest suddenly zeroing in on the man beside him. "You've had words with Hammond before about this?"

John took a deep breath, "I'm supposed to be going with you to make things better not worse."

"Then tell me now. Otherwise I'll work it out when you see him again."

John looked at him and then dipped his shoulders, "When I made CO he thought I should…hammer out the…" John scrubbed a hand over his face "Fuck it, he thought I should break up Gav and Ryan."

"The two you told me about?" Sherlock asked.

Nodding, John shifted in his seat again, "Yeah. And I told him where he could shove it."

"Then what was the problem?"

"He repeated it," John stared out the window, not seeing the city outside. "When Ryan…he made some thick comment and Gav went nuts." John swallowed, "The army isn't exactly lenient when that sort of thing happens. Gav was court marshalled. He lost the army and Ryan in the space of twenty four hours."

"That quick?"

John threw him a look, "Sherlock he beat him. To a bloody pulp. It took three men to pull him off Hammond. It was obvious what was going to happen."

"Three men?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Where were you?"

"Digging a bullet out of someone's thigh," John muttered. "There wasn't a lot I could do."

Unsure what to say Sherlock stared at the seat opposite and at the left over indicators of the previous passenger; an elderly woman visiting her brother…could be sister he supposed, he had made that assumption before. "You're a very patient man John," he said eventually.

"Mm," John said sounding as if he were a million miles away.

"It wasn't your fault." The words sounded strange against his tongue, foreign. It was such an obvious thing to point out and yet it seemed like the thing John needed him to say.

John nodded sharply.

* * *

><p>The minute they walked into the room, Hammond's mouth curled in disgust and Ashcroft glanced between John and Hammond as if expecting them to start shooting at each other before walking over.<p>

Ashcroft saluted with a grin, "Damned good to see you sir," he said with a nod.

John nodded, seemingly uncomfortable already, "It's been quite a few years," he said with a smile.

"Yeah," Ashcroft almost managed not to look behind him as he duck into his wallet, "Got myself a boy now," he showed a picture of a grimy faced toddler that John made some appropriate comment about.

Curiously John didn't mention Ava.

This time the entire team was there with Graves and Mycroft sitting at the head as they debriefed.

"We'll use Walters as our way in," Graves said, placing the picture on the table. "He-"

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock closed his eyes pained.

John jammed an elbow into his side, "What? He is." Sherlock muttered.

"Why?" John asked, eyes studiously focused on the photograph.

"Walters is too new to make a mistake, too caught up in the romance of it all." Sherlock reached for Batir's folder instead, "This one."

"Because what? You're fucking prophetic?" Hammonds snarled.

"No, I used my brain. A foreign concept to you clearly."

Beside him John sunk down into his chair with a sigh.

* * *

><p>"Well that could have gone better," John said as they sat in the empty meeting room next to the one Mycroft had just forced them out of.<p>

Sherlock glared at the mirror opposite. "He's incompetent."

"He's not incompetent. He's far from incompetent," John replied, "He's just an utter arse."

Sherlock turned his head to John, "You aren't very good at this when you don't like the person you're defending."

John sighed, "I'm not very good at mediating when the person you're insulting hates me more than you." He tapped his pen on the pad of paper in front of him.

"No-one hates you more than me, don't be an idiot." Sherlock glanced over at John in time to see the brief flash of a smile.

"I thought you were going to try?" John said after a moment, tossing the pen down.

"I was."

"That was not you trying." John replied frankly.

"No." Sherlock agreed.

John let out a huff, "So…what? His watch told you he was a tosser or his hair cut made you decide to-"

"You were uncomfortable." Sherlock said standing, hoping to distract John from the conversation. "We should go-"

John was staring up at him with an amused triumphant smile that was bordering on offended. "That's…that's very thoughtful of you."

"Shut up."

"Romantic, one might say,"

"Shut up."

"You're like a white knight-"

Sherlock stopped at the door and whirled around to see John's half amused, half peeved expression. "Yes, fine. Mock."

"I don't need you to fight my battle with Hammonds." John said seriously.

Sherlock shifted and stared at the seat Hammond had been in. "Your hand." He said letting out a deep breathe. "It was trembling."

John glanced down instinctively and pulled the hand in question into him slightly. He looked so surprised, so taken aback that Sherlock risked taking a few steps towards him.

"I didn't… John swallowed and clenched his hand as if trying to firm it up, even though it was now as steady as ever. Disliking watching John react that way, Sherlock covered John's fist with his own hand gently, still keeping a certain distance away from the chair. Slowly John slid his thumb to rest on the back of Sherlock's hand.

"I didn't realise," John said after a minute, staring at their joined hands.

"I've never seen it shake when you were under pressure." Sherlock said after a moment.

John stared ahead, seeing something that Sherlock couldn't. Hating it, Sherlock bent to John, resting against his temple and then slowly pressing a kiss to his ear, his cheek, his neck until John turned to him.

Cool, calm lips sought his in an almost business like kiss and Sherlock frowned into it. Sliding his hand to cup John's neck with splayed fingers and his cheek with his thumb, Sherlock pulled back.

"Not here," John said quietly, casting a quick look at the door where Mycroft was soothing ruffled feathers.

"Why?" Sherlock pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth.

John closed his eyes and tensed, "because I will not keep my temper if he starts in on you."

"He did start in on me."

"Because you were being a dick. I will not sit there and listen to him…"John pulled his head away from Sherlock's hands suddenly.

"John-"

"Sherlock," John scrubbed at his face in frustration. "You don't get it! You might be able to sit there and listen to them but I can't. I cannot sit and listen to someone telling me that I'm wrong to love you , that what was have is unnatural and we should be ashamed. I will certainly not manage to sit there while that wanker implies that because we've had sex your opinion counts for nothing and should be ignored. I couldn't give a flying toss what they think, I give one about what they do and how they will act with you."

"Oh." Sherlock stared down at him. "I see."

Dark blue eyes stared up at him suddenly suspicious. "Do you?"

"Yes." Sherlock stepped back with a dangerous glance at the door.

"Right," John still seemed wary or doubtful. "What exactly have you just got from that?"

"That someone is stupid enough to pass comment on my relationship."

John let out a frustrated noise and sunk down the chair until he was almost completely slumped in what looked like a very uncomfortable position.

"And that had never mattered before because no-one else has ever mattered before." Sherlock said staring at the chair leg.

John cracked an eye open and regarded him seriously. Slowly he dropped his hand to rest on the arm of the chair, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together.

"I don't like the idea," he said slowly, "Of people not listening to you because of me. More than anything Sherlock, you should never be ignored. You're too bloody brilliant for that."

Sherlock rested against the table thoughtfully, "John I have never been regarded as normal. People are usually not that surprised to discover I don't tend to label what comes into my bed."

John winced at the phrasing even as his lips twitched.

"And I am more than capable of getting people to listen." Sherlock stood, adjusting his suit, "I believe I have made something of an art form out of annoying people and still have them hanging on my every word."

John tilted his head to one side as he watched Sherlock.

"So, I suggest you stop whinging and give me full permission to make Hammonds as uncomfortable as he has just made you for the past hour."

"You don't care?" john asked sounding a little more wondering this time.

"Why would I? I am far more used to being the only person with the correct way of thinking in the room than you are. Their vitriolic comments make them no less wrong and me no less right." Sherlock paused, "Unless you agree with them,"

John drummed his fingers on his lips thoughtfully.

"There are times Sherlock when I forget just how extraordinary you can be."

"That was stupid of you," Sherlock muttered.

"You're not worried about burning bridges?" John asked siting up.

"Exactly what gave you the impression there was a bridge to begin with"? Sherlock asked, confused at John's thought process.

John snorted and then stared at Sherlock in that way that usually meant he was about to take the plunge.

And then he stood and kissed Sherlock so utterly and completely thoroughly that for a second Sherlock forgot exactly where in Cuba it was Moran had met Moriarty.

And then found himself subjected to an assessing look as John stepped back.

"Well, your hair always looks as if you've just rolled out of someone's bed." John sighed, "But I think that will do."

"No it doesn't, does it?" Sherlock angled himself to catch his reflection in the mirror.

"Yeah it does," John called as he walked towards the door.

* * *

><p>Hammonds threw them a suspicious look when they walked back in, his eyes narrowing on their flushed cheeks and John's suddenly relaxed stance.<p>

Mycroft glanced between the two of them and threw Sherlock a fierce look. The one that he had used the time Sherlock had come in with the dead cat while Mycroft was attempting to date.

"Brother, dear, have we missed anything?" Sherlock asked in a tone that had John glance at him in surprise, it sounded so warm and friendly. Mycroft stared off to the side as if about to order a missile strike and Hammonds gave a quick glance between them all.

Everyone else was just reading through the reports, but Hammonds couldn't seem to focus.

Sherlock held out his hand for his and John's documents and then, with a gentle hand on John's back, steered him back to the table, pulling out his chair for him.

"Don't push it," John growled under his breath as they sat down. "Just because I said yes to this does not mean you treat me like some romantic heroine."

"Of course not," Sherlock soothed, flicking open the cover and reading while keeping an eye on Hammonds.

"What do you think of this?" he asked minutes later, twisting his chair to get closer to John and placing a finger on John's report while crowding his personal space.

Sighing with resignation John started to shake his head and then seemed to catch sight of what it was that Sherlock was actually pointing to.

Moran's psychological profile.

Pulling away from Sherlock, John snatched the report up and started reading properly.

"This isn't right," John shook his head.

Hammonds sat up, spoiling for a fight even though he had absolutely no way of knowing what John was talking about.

Mistake.

Sitting back in his chair Sherlock stretched lazily.

"What isn't right?" Graves asked curiously, apparently having a lot more patience for John than he had for Sherlock.

"The profile," John was still scanning it as he talked, a slightly impressive talent that Sherlock had always been grateful for when he was reading the newspaper and Sherlock was bored.

"And you know this because-" Graves started to ask.

"John was trained by Moran." Ashcroft said carefully.

Nearly every eye flew at John.

"You said he gave you lessons," Sherlock muttered sitting up.

"He did." John continued to read. "Lots of them."

Mycroft settled back, "You are aware he was recruiting even back when you were stationed with him?"

John nodded, "Yeah, we had a minor disagreement."

Ashcroft snorted, "Yeah, that was the rumour that was still going round when you were my CO. A _minor _disagreement."

Sherlock caught Mycroft pointedly flicking through the file and looking at Graves who looked a little pale.

Good.

"Over?" Mycroft asked with a sigh. When John looked up curiously, Mycroft huffed, "What was your disagreement about?"

"John refused to shot a civilian that Moran suspected was armed." Ashcroft said.

"Ridiculous rumour, he'd have never have made that shot anyway," Hammonds sneered.

Ashcroft gave him a look at to Sherlock's amazement Hammonds seemed to relent.

"It surely adds more weight to the profile," Hammonds muttered after a moment. "He was like that; trigger happy-"

"He was cruel-" Graves corrected.

"No," John shook his head, "he simply didn't think you could win a war and play nice at the same time."

"Couldn't you have been in trouble for that?" Sherlock asked glancing at Mycroft.

"For which? Shooting or not shooting?" John shrugged, "He liked me. As much as he tore into me for it, as far as he was concerned that was the matter over. He isn't…wasn't vindictive." He tapped at the report. "Despite what this says."

"He holds grudges-" Graves started to say.

"For incompetence," John argued, "For cowardice, but not for genuine mistakes or for just acting against him. He's incredibly pragmatic. There are always two sides in a war and he can respect, like and even admire the opposing side. Doesn't mean he won't shot them in the heart the first opportunity he gets but he'd never slag them off. One of the lads did that one evening and Moran scared the poor kid witless for being disrespectful."

Hammonds flicked through and seemed to grudgingly nod, "He takes no pleasure in pain," he added as he read the profile properly, "He just doesn't feel any guilt in causing it."

John nodded, "It's a justified necessity. If it needs to be done, he'll do it."

"Which was always your problem," Hammonds muttered under his breath.

"Why? Because I didn't turf out two of mine for daring to fall in love?" John asked sounding utterly calm and this time not backing down.

Sherlock glanced at his hand and saw the tiniest tremor, but nothing as bad as it had been previously.

There was utter silence.

"Moran hated the influence of the press," Hammonds added as if John hadn't spoke, "He thought they compromised our way of doing things by arguing for things they didn't understand. Liberal thinking getting in the way or our mission."

John tilted his chin in a very Ava'esque way.

"He also despised hypocrites," John said, and the wobble was only faint enough for Sherlock to detect.

Hammonds eyes darted between Sherlock and John, before locking gazes with John.

"Why don't we take a br-" Graves started to say, darting up from his chair, while Mycroft scribbled something on a piece of paper.

"That doesn't surprise me," Hammonds snarled. "You always were too fucking weak in command. But then you couldn't take orders properly either you little poof."

John didn't flinch.

But his hand did.

"Hammonds that's more than enough-" Graves begun.

"You're not doing this very well," Sherlock leaned back so that no-one else could hear his soft words to John as Graves hissed at Hammonds.

"Sherlock-"

"Enjoy it. Show me how easily you can make him lose his temper. How apoplectic he can get."

John stared at him in stunned amazement and Sherlock smiled wolfishly.

"Unless you want me to do it," Sherlock shrugged, "Either way, I wish to walk away while the man has the closest thing to a coronary we can manage."

John darted a glance at Hammonds, "We do need him for this. Despite all this, he is the best person to lead this team."

"Which is why I said closest thing to a coronary fit and am letting you do it."

Studying him John nodded slowly, "You're letting me rip the guy to pieces rather than doing it yourself?"

"I think it might be more satisfying that way." Sherlock mused, "An experiment you understand: to see the effect of different approaches."

John took a deep breath, "Start me off?" he asked almost shyly.

Sherlock nodded and stretched back, "These chairs are far too uncomfortable," he complained loudly, "Perhaps you should be more generous with the lube tonight."

Hammonds' mouth gaped.

As did the rest of the rooms.

There. And at least that should nudge Hammonds into having a little more respect for John; men like him always seemed to have more of an issue with the receiver.

John looked torn between bursting out laughing and sinking to the floor in horror. For a second Sherlock feared he had pushed it too far and was about to just barrel on in when John's grin over took the horror.

"Yes dear," he said patting Sherlock's hand patronisingly, which Sherlock suspected was revenge for holding out the chair for him earlier. "But we are running through the bottle very quickly,"

Mycroft stared at Sherlock with fury a he penned another note.

"Cancelling appointments?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly,

"You haven't even got the decency to be ashamed-" Hammond screeched.

"For having fantastic sex?" John appeared to think about it for a moment, "Why would I be?"

"Have you seen what you've let into this room?" Hammonds screamed at Graves.

Graves seemed to have lost control of his jaw. While next to Hammonds, Ashcroft looked like he was desperately trying not to laugh.

"Is he aware your brother runs the government?" John asked Sherlock in a mock whisper.

"Clearly not. Nor his penchant for kidnapping people, though I have suspicions it's how he gets dates nowadays." Sherlock studied his nails thoughtfully.

"I'm not sitting in the same room as these two-"

"I think he's jealous," John commented, his hand utterly steady.

"-disgraceful little-"

"You' think he'd managed to ignore it if it upset him so much. The same way he's managed to ignore that his son is ashamed of him, his wife is scared of him and the dog is the only thing that tolerates his company at home."

Hammonds stiffened in shock as everyone stared at Sherlock, surprised.

John huffed, "I thought you were letting me take this?" he muttered.

"Apologies." Sherlock shrugged, "It's a natural gift."

"I refuse-" Hammonds started, pointing a shaking finger as his face turned a rather fascinating shade of puce.

"Yes," Mycroft stood finally, "I imagine you do."

"Oh I'm not finished," Sherlock sat up and cracked his fingers.

* * *

><p>John shoved him against the stalls in the bathroom, "You mad, crazy, wonderful man," he whispered, attacking Sherlock's mouth.<p>

"You do realise that just because I implied we'd be doing this, doesn't mean we have to," Sherlock gasped, as John started to trace his way down his front.

"Makes it a hell of a lot more satisfying if we do," John commented.

Sherlock couldn't argue with that.

* * *

><p>Ava stared up at them as she munched on a chip.<p>

"Yes?" John asked, pausing. Sherlock looked over at her from unwrapping his scarf.

"Mycroft phones and said to tell you that you are spoilt little children and that next time he'll treat you as such." Ava frowned, "And that you could have just told him that the man was noxious."

"Obnoxious?" John asked tilting his head to the side.

Ava shrugged, "And that I'm far more mature than the pair of you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John filled the kettle up.

"And that next time you should use the stalls because there are cameras in the bathrooms."

John dropped the kettle.

Ava stared at it. "I don't know what he was talking about," she said, sounding annoyed as she took another bite. "Mrs Hudson went very red though."

* * *

><p>I'm so not good at smack talk!<p>

Next chapter, finally, is Sherlock's pov of "A day with the Consulting Detective."


	19. Part 2: Chapter Three

**Thank you all so much for the response last chapter :) I am sorry - i've managed to comepletely confuse myself as to where i'm up to in reviews - being dreadfully hung over does not help! I will now go and try and work out where i'm up to!**

* * *

><p><strong>27<strong>**th**** January**

He usually hated this position.

It was dull, nothing to look at, nothing to observe but the repetitive motion. It didn't mean it didn't feel good but it wasn't enough to push him over the edge.

John had taken it as a challenge.

"Still bored," John asked sweetly, trailing a finger down Sherlock's back in maddeningly ticklish strokes.

"John," He…whined.

Not begged. Whined.

The handcuffs that he'd encouraged John to liberate clacked on the rungs of the headboard.

"Mmm?" John asked in that all too pleasant manner as he continued to move in shallow thrusts that were going to drive Sherlock mad. He leaned over Sherlock, tracing the patters with his tongue and roaming his hand around to Sherlock's stomach as if he was about to-

And then just danced his hand back again.

"God-" Sherlock hissed.

"Shush," John hissed back.

"Then move!"

John pulled back, steadying both hands on Sherlock's hips in a rather contemplative manner, as if Sherlock was the fucking Rosetta stone.

"John," he…almost begged.

"I'm thinking," John said in a passable imitation of him.

"Don't strain yourself," Sherlock gasped, glaring up at the cuffs and debating whether it was worth just slipping free and flipping them over.

He could probably do it, but he had given his word he would let John try.

"If you could have me do anything what would it be?" John asked suddenly.

Sherlock glared at the pillow, "Moving!"

"Sherlock," John smoothed his hands down Sherlock's thighs. "Tell me. He said, starting to rock with a little more purpose.

"Gagged." Sherlock muttered, meeting the thrusts. "Unable to ask stupid questions."

John sighed and sped up a little and set the pace.

The desperation he had felt during John's little teasing session faded slowly into a pleasant ache and then just a minor flutter. The sensation was there but his mind was starting to wander away from what they were doing…

The thrusts met in time with the handcuffs to the point where Sherlock could calculate there was 1.5 second gap between.

Perhaps he should see if John could manage to return them, now that was a skill-

"I used to think about this," John said suddenly. "Before you knew. I'd watch you bend to grab something and wonder how you'd react if I came up behind you."

-that few… Sherlock blinked suddenly focussing on John's words.

John's hand traced a path along his spine. "If you'd be silent or loud. I could picture you as either. You were always going to be demanding, but I used to wonder if I could make you shiver and gasp without you intending to."

Sherlock caught his breath, his thoughts skidding away.

"You'd drive me insane. The more I thought about it the more I was convinced you'd look over at me and just know. You have no idea how hard it was, when you found out. When we were standing opposite each other, nearly kissing. It was either leave or bend you over the table."

The bloody cuffs wouldn't let him reach down.

"I could have. I was desperate enough. And then you'd stare at me, following my every move around the flat. Do you remember I used to sleep on the sofa?"

Sherlock nodded frantically.

"The blankets covering me? I'd picture you watching me-"

God almighty, the image screamed through his brain and he twisted his hands, frantic to undo them. And then John, wonderful John, finally wrapped his hand around him.

"Telling me how to do it, watching my every reaction-"

Why the hell hadn't he looked under the blankets?

"Would you enjoy just watching me? Or would you have to join in? Could you manage to keep your distance? Do you think I could tempt you?"

John's voice was at his ear and the thrusts were impossible to predict and time now.

"I bet you that without touching me, you could control when I came."

Sherlock lost his mind.

* * *

><p>"You have a filthy mouth," Sherlock gasped as he lay boneless on the bed and John undid the cuffs. "Why did I never know this?"<p>

"You never asked." John said sounding far too matter of fact about the issue. "You're really not a fan of that position?"

Sherlock cracked open an eye, "I'm a fan of your mind," he said after a moment. "I could cope."

John shook his head," It's fine. Just wanted to try it." He seemed to hesitate as he dropped down next to Sherlock. "What about the other way round?"

Sherlock sighed, "Marginally better, it might be fascinating to see what I could work out from just watching the arch of your back."

John smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Right."

Sensing that there was something…something about this, Sherlock gathered his will power and turned over to face John properly. "What is it?"

"Are you…" John seemed to struggle for the right way to phrase what was in his head. "Satisfied?"

"I'm ecstatic John," Sherlock muttered half into the pillow, "Where were you five minutes ago?"

John huffed, "I don't like this," he slumped down on the pillow.

Worry grabbed at Sherlock's chest. "What?" he asked sitting up a little.

"Being…" John glared at the ceiling, "The…inexperienced one."

He looked so pathetically sullen that Sherlock turned his head into the pillow to stomp down the strange laughter that was bubbling up inside. John seemed to sense his amusement and wrinkled his nose. "I just…the angles, I'm still working out-"

Sherlock turned further into the pillow.

"Fine," John actually folded his arms and glared at the ceiling.

"John," Sherlock removed himself from the pillow. "You are aware that whatever shortcomings occurred in that position had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me."

John looked at him, "That's-"

"And that whether you'd shagged your way through all the men in London it would still be the case." Sherlock added. "That's why we experiment. And you're hypothesising very well."

John glanced up at him. "I'm being a complete girl about this, aren't I?" he sighed.

"I'm led to believe the expression is cute."

John glared at him, "Sod off."

Sherlock sighed, taking pity on him "I enjoy games and tests" he offered after a moment. "I enjoy watching your reaction. I enjoy watching you, studying you. I need to see your face or something that will show me what you're thinking, what you're feeling. I did it with your hands once."

John turned to him finally, "Games?" he asked with some trepidation.

Sherlock swept a thumb over John's lips, "Could I make you orgasm just by telling you to? Just by watching?"

John looked thoughtful.

"How long could you hold back? How still could you keep? How quiet? What would I need to do to make you beg, scream…" Sherlock smirked, "I already have one permutation of that. And, of course, visa-versa."

"So that you keep your mind on what we're doing and don't get bored?" John asked suddenly.

Hearing it said that bluntly made Sherlock blink in surprise, but after a while he nodded. "Yes." He said; it was as good an explanation as any.

Shifting on the pillow, John tapped his fingers on the space between them, miles away again. Sherlock watched him warily, unsure what he thought about that. John didn't seem upset or hurt just…distant.

Suddenly John shook himself. "What's the time?" he asked, sitting up.

"Almost two."

John winced, "I should go to bed."

"Stay."

But, as usual John shook his head, "It's easier if I go upstairs now."

* * *

><p>Sherlock snapped awake and stared up at John in confusion.<p>

"What?"

"Tea," John put the mug of the side. "It's five past eight."

Sherlock glared at the mug and then at John, "Contrary to your belief, I do not sleep when you do." He hissed, pulling the covers over his head, "Go away."

"I need you to get up." John muttered after a moment. "Now."

Sherlock rolled away from his voice.

"Please."

He hated this relationship thing.

* * *

><p>Dressed and not happy about it, Sherlock stormed into the kitchen. "What?"<p>

John looked up from his cup of tea. "Sorry?"

Sherlock looked around the flat, searching for the problem.

Nothing.

"Why am I up?" he hissed.

John opened his mouth.

"Daddy? I can't find my toothbrush." Ava's voice echoed cheerfully from upstairs.

"Like hell she can't," John muttered and stood up, "Give me a second."

Sherlock stared as he disappeared out the door and then stalked over to his violin and started playing "I know a song that will get on your nerves-"

Ava was good for some things.

* * *

><p>"Why are you in such a mood?" John muttered as he came back in carrying Ava ten minutes later.<p>

Sherlock just kept playing.

"I asked you about this and you said it was fine."

Sherlock deliberately started to play off tune.

"Sherlock?" John snapped. "It's a teachers training day, I need you to look after Ava."

What?

Sherlock dropped the bow down from the strings and turned. "Training?" he asked glancing down at Ava briefly.

And sure enough her school uniform was no-where in sight.

"I told you last week," John huffed buttering the toast with far more force than was needed.

"Are they not trained in the first place?" Sherlock asked, the violin dropping from his neck and the bow lowering down to rest by his leg.

"It means we get a day off," Ava explained, as if he were a moron.

"They have to keep up to date. I go to medical conferences sometimes for the same reason." John looked annoyed, "It's one day Sherlock, less than that. I'll try to get out as soon as I can."

There had been some vague reference to it now that he thought about it. How was he meant to keep up with the day to day ins and outs of things.

Especially when John woke him up at the crack of dawn for something as ridiculous at this. As if Ava wouldn't have managed to entertain herself while he was asleep. John of all people should know that Sherlock didn't sleep through fires or accidents. They were far more interesting than sleeping. And Mrs Hudson…

…ah, Mrs Hudson was away for the next few days. She'd sent up a care package consisting of so much sugar that Sherlock had promptly hid it before John could launch into a lecture on the dangers of imbibing sweet things.

"You are aware that Mrs Hudson is away visiting her sister?" Sherlock asked keeping his tone light.

He snuck a glance at John who had paused in his organisation of the conserves lids. "Yes," John said after a moment.

It hurt to watch that pathetic lie spew from his lips. "That was pitiful," Sherlock commented as Ava looked vaguely unimpressed at her father's dishonesty.

John's shoulders sagged, "If you really don't want to do it Sherlock-"

"You don't want to spend the day with me?" Ava asked, her head twisting round to face Sherlock's and turning a dangerously wounded look upon him. Behind her John looked as if he were trying to work out what to do and seemed to be coming up with very few solutions.

They both looked so suddenly forlorn that he almost felt like squirming. "I...this surely cannot be your best solution."

John flinched and looked so utterly guilty that Sherlock wanted to take the words back. Confused at the reaction, Sherlock studied him-

Moriarty had made John leave Ava home alone.

John had alluded to it a few times, but had never seemed comfortable really admitting it, as if it made him a bad father.

It had just proved Sherlock had failed spectacularly.

John winced, seeing the dawning realisation, and shrugged as if to downplay the issue.

Sherlock glanced at Ava who was darting her gaze between them as if they were at a tennis match. John followed his gaze and looked away, pulling his phone out, missing Sherlock's small nod.

"John," Sherlock said as he pressed a button.

John looked up.

"Fine."

* * *

><p>It was almost eleven o clock when Lestrade phoned.<p>

Up until that point Ava had been a complete angel, which was rather unusual for her. It was as if she could sense his consternation and had decided to just sit and do quiet activities that required minimum supervision.

That was until she answered the phone, after he'd gone to the damned effort of turning his off and not stealing John's on his way out.

She was surprisingly quick when she wanted to be. No sooner had the phone rung than she had abandoned her pencils and dashed over, answering the phone in a manner he could only describe as proud.

The look she flashed at him as she said hello, indicated she was attempting to be helpful.

"Mr Holmes?" she asked a moment later, screwing up her nose at the unfamiliar name. Ava looked over at him curiously.

He shook his head, whatever it was could wait.

"No, Sherlock says he doesn't live here," Ava declared firmly, almost primly.

Sherlock couldn't help the groan that slid past his lips.

Knowing his luck today it was telesales. And he wouldn't even be able to rip into them unless he sent Ava upstairs.

Ava blinked at the receiver and turned to him, "The man said you have to stop playing silly beggers." She relayed, obviously not understanding the phrase.

Sherlock gestured with a sharp hand, "Lestrade?" he asked as he took the phone off of Ava.

"What kind of game are you playing? I've been trying to get hold of your for over an hour-"

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, cutting Lestrade off before he really got started. The man was getting so demanding.

"You asked me to do this, I swear Sherlock if you've already lost interest-"

"What is it?"

Lestrade sighed, "A murder. It looks like the M.O of that assassin…Doran?"

"Another one?" Doran was high up on Raymond Setter's little assassination firm. If they could pin something on him…

"Yeah," Lestrade seemed to have relented in his little assertive spell. "A lawyer, she was found strangled this morning."

"Where was it found...she found?" he asked, correcting himself in case Lestrade was still being sensitive

"I'll text it to you," Lestrade said, "You'll be here?"

"Ten minutes," he said hanging up the phone. Finally things seemed to be moving along well. Brilliantly well! He let out a chuckle of delight. If he could find some lead, like he had on the Sammonds case then he could potentially unravel two great knots within a month or two-

"Ten minutes what?" Ava asked, having stood quietly and patiently.

Ah.

He'd forgotten about that.

* * *

><p>They arrived at the crime scene a little later than he had hoped. Getting Ava ready had taken more than ten minutes, but he'd remembered to bring her homework so that it would be an educational trip of sorts.<p>

Not a pen though. He'd forgotten that.

The taxi pulled up by the field and the body was far enough away from the road that Lestrade didn't notice, surrounded by his underlings as they fluttered around the crime scene.

He pulled the police tape over his head and noted with some amusement that Ava barely needed to duck as she followed him wide eyed and then, spotting the huddle of police, started to wander in that direction.

"What are they doing?" she asked as he caught her hood to pull her away. It was irritating, her natural curiosity was to look but until he saw how gruesome the body was it wouldn't be a good idea.

And, thinking about it, John might not approve. It was probably one of those things he needed to ask John first.

Talking." Sherlock said. "This way." He led her over to the car that was parked on the field and would be easily seen from where the body was if he stood at the edge of the dip where the body was or poked his head up every so often.

He angled her so that he would be able to keep an eye on her as he talked to Lestrade. "Stay here," he told her firmly.

Ava just stared up at him, her chin buried in her striped scarf of all different shades of pink, the little bobbly hat that nodded when she turned her head to the group and she threw him a look of intense disappointment.

Though whether it was for being dragged out to the crime scene or the fact that she was being denied the most interesting part of a crime scene was anyone's guess.

He hated that he couldn't tell which it was.

**What is your policy on Ava and dead bodies? SH**

"You took your time," Lestrade huffed.

Sherlock ignored him and went to the body-

-ah, face smashed in to hide identity. Perhaps not the best start for Ava.

"I need your phone," Sherlock said noting the position.

Lestrade muttered furiously behind him, and Sherlock spun, reaching into Lestrade's coat pocket when he gathered with the majority of the mumblings that Lestrade was still in his sudden assertive phase.

Lestrade glared at him as Sherlock pulled out his phone, keys hidden from his sight underneath. "Do you want to be here?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock pocketed the keys before he noticed and unlocked the phone, "'Cause you're not acting like it!"

"I'm merely giving you all a head-start," Sherlock said, wandering away and back to Ava.

**Never mind, not a good one to start on. SH**

He locked Lestrade's phone, paused in what he was doing and then studied it as he walked to the car. Checking his name was in the call lists and that he wasn't listed as one of the more colourful ways Lestrade referred to him as, he glanced up at Ava who was looking utterly bored. Disliking the look, he moved her gently to the side as he opened the car.

"You have a key?" she asked, suddenly awed.

He pointed to the passenger seat and she scrambled in with far too much enthusiasm for someone getting into a police car, then looked at him eagerly.

Her face fell when he placed the homework book on her lap. Ava studied it for a moment and then looked up at him with such a pleading expression that Sherlock almost took it back.

John had warned him about that look!

"But I don't have a pen," she reminded him.

Avoiding her looking at her, Sherlock reached over to fumble with the glove compartment and retrieved a pen.

"Here," he said handing it over to her and starting to pull himself back out of the car.

"Who's Scott?" Ava asked curiously.

Freezing he looked down at her, confused by the question. "What?" he asked, trying to work out if she'd heard something while he'd been talking with Lestrade.

Ava held up the pen, twisting it until she showed him the pen's logo. Sherlock stared at it.

Scotland Yard.

"It says Scot Land's Yard," Ava explained.

"Scotland Yard," he corrected, almost amused at the idea.

"Are we in Scotland then?"

He could see her point he thought, even as he shook his head, "No," he replied, wincing at just leaving the explanation at that.

He needed to get back to Lestrade before the man came looking for him.

"Are we in a yard?"

"No-just do your homework," Sherlock could see Lestrade's annoyed stance from behind out of the corner of his eye in the mirror, "or at least make it look like you tried," he added when she sulked down at her homework book.

Ava gave him a look that meant he probably shouldn't have suggested that. He looked down at her, feeling strangely uncomfortable at the idea of leaving her almost out of his sight. It was foolish; an unnecessary nagging worry but it wouldn't leave.

"Here," he said, mind made up and crouching into the space left between the door and the car so that Lestrade wouldn't instantly see him. Digging the phone out of his coat pocket, he let her see what he was doing with the phone as he scrolled through the contacts list.

"Here," Sherlock showed her his name on the list. "If you need something text," he explained half expecting to instantly getting an empty text message the second he started to walk away, "if you see something...worrying then call. I'll just be over there," he pointed in the vague direction of the body.

"What are you going to do?" Ava asked peering between him, the phone and the police.

"Help them," Sherlock said, trying to work out if there was anything he'd forgotten. "You understand how to use the phone?"

"Can I answer it?" Ava asked, clearly still remembering the talk they'd had earlier on about answering the phone.

Sherlock stared down at her, picturing for a moment the confused faces of Lestrade's superiors when Ava Watson answered the phone, "Not unless it's me calling. Watch," he dug out his own phone and called. Seconds later the phone in Ava's hand lit up with the word Sherlock.

"That's the only time you answer it." Sherlock said firmly, ending the call, narrowing his eyes to assess whether she had understood.

Ava nodded. "Are we having lunch soon. All the hands are at the top," she said showing him her little watch with the fish that got lost on it and fixing him with a look that was so completely and utterly a replica of John's expression when the possibility of skipping a meal was mentioned that he just stared at her, stunned for a moment.

Ava kept staring back, clearly wanting an answer. "This won't take long," he assured her, "And if you're good you can choose what we eat."

"McDonald's," she told him, John's look falling off her face at the prospect of soggy fast food.

"Fine," he replied, almost sure he could manage the five minutes needed to queue up to order a takeaway happy meal.

Satisfied Ava settled into the seat, looking almost excited at the prospect of being shut in a car for half an hour.

Perhaps he had forgotten something, he thought as his feet seemed to refuse to move away. What was it…?

"Don't you need to go and help them?" Ave asked, as if he needed the reminder.

Sherlock nodded, the sooner he helped, the sooner they could leave. He stood suddenly, and a wave of…of something hit him as she followed his movements, chin tilting up to keep her undivided attention on him.

Her cheeks were rosy from the wind and he smoothed the back of his fingers over her soft skin there (to check she wasn't too cold) and then lifted the hand away, diverting to stroke her wind swept hair straight(to make her look presentable).

Annoyed at himself, for reasons that utterly confused him, and thereby annoyed him more, he shut the door, locked it and made his way over to the Inspector.

**Do I even want to know? JW**

Sherlock paused, still nagged by that strange feeling.

What had he forgotten?

Maybe he should put the window down a bit, wasn't that what people with pets did? And he was sure he'd heard someone say before that there wasn't a lot of difference between the two.

It sounded ridiculous to him but it also sounding like the kind of foolish nonsense that most people complained about.

Turning back he unlocked and opened the car, yanking the door open. Ava stared up at him curiously, the homework book surprisingly open on her lap.

She said nothing as he turned the key in the ignition and then pressed the button to slide the window down a little.

What if she were too cold?

"Comfortable?" he asked, knowing to well that if you suggested something to Ava she usually played up to it.

"Police cars are boring." She told him sullenly, pouting and glaring around her as if to blame the vehicle.

"It's dreadfully disappointing, isn't it," Sherlock agreed. "Remember to text if you have an issue." he added.

Then waited until Ava nodded and closed the door again, locking it.

* * *

><p>It took barely three minutes to determine that the woman hadn't been killed by a hired assassin. It was however a passable copycat, which meant that she had been murdered by someone who had access to past case notes.<p>

Not uninteresting, but not urgent either.

Lestrade seemed to think he'd lost his mind.

"You don't want this?" he asked as Sherlock finished barking his initial observations at the team.

Oh he did, but taking down Moriarty was far more important; he and John had enough to work on as it was.

Tedious, dull work that's only mystery was finding enough evidentiary proof to hold up in court.

"It depends how badly you mess it up," Sherlock replied, turning to return to the car.

"That's it?" Lestrade called after him, clearly following. Really the man had no sense of professionalism.

"What would you like?" Sherlock asked, stopping and turning back. "A map to guide you to an original thought?"

"Don't give me that!" Lestrade said frankly, ignoring the insult with ease, "A copycat murder of an assassin whose murders barely make the headlines, are certainly never linked and rarely consistently local? This is right up your street, if for no other reason than it gives you the chance to insult anyone who works in law, given your description of the murderer."

"I have other things that require my attention-"

"These aren't like your normal cases Sherlock where things happen quickly. Finding evidence can take months. Don't give me that bullshit."

"Do you not listen? I will consult on this later, but I have things to do."

"Then why are you walking away from the road-" Lestrade seemed to realise where they were heading. "Look, I don't know what you're about to do to the car-" The lack of footsteps behind Sherlock indicated he had stopped and had finally realised he was missing his keys.

There was a strangled noise and then frantic squelches as Lestrade strode to catch up, "For God's sakes Sherlock what have you done to the car?" He asked as Sherlock stopped at the door and opened it, "You can't go around interfering with police property Sherlock. We've had this discussion before_"

Lestrade's voce died away as Ava clambered out, her homework book closed suspiciously around Lestrade's phone. Sherlock could feel the bewildered look that Lestrade was giving them.

"What the..." Lestrade seemed to reconsider what he was about to say. "Why is there a child in the car? If this is part of the murder_"

How on earth that would work, Sherlock had no idea. It wasn't as if he made a habit of carting small children around that got hungry and needed attention.

"Mrs Hudson is away." Sherlock explained. "Did you finish your homework?" he asked, turning his attention to Ava, who seemed to ponder the question a moment.

"No," she replied honestly.

"Wait...what...how does that explain anything?" Lestrade demanded, cutting over their conversation.

Ah, so Lestrade hadn't met Ava then.

"She's John's daughter." Sherlock explained, "He is at work and the school is having some training day."

Ava peered up at them curiously, wincing as the wind picked up. Perhaps he should have insisted on an extra jumper-

"You brought a child to a crime scene?" Lestrade asked, his voice heavy with disbelief as he looked between them both.

It was hardly as if he'd marched her up to the body and highlighted the points of impact. He'd kept her in the car, far away from the gore and the idiots.

What was the man's problem?

"I cracked the window for her," he found himself saying.

That seemed to make Lestrade more incredulous, not less.

Ava stepped close to him, still gazing between himself and Lestrade, her little forehead creasing with worry.

"You promised McDonald's." She reminded him.

"I promised you food from McDonald's, I made no promise about eating at McDonald's," Sherlock muttered, Lestrade's stunned look riling him. "For God's sake Lestrade, as I seem to be more competent at this job than your entire squad, I think I can effectively keep a child occupied for a day."

Occupied isn't the issue." Lestrade shook his head, "Is John aware you have his daughter?"

"Of course he is." Sherlock snapped. "It could have hardly escaped his notice this morning when he walked out the door that he was leaving her under my watch."

Lestrade glanced down at Ava as if assessing damage and then up again, "Is he aware she's here?" Lestrade asked doubtfully, "At a murder scene?" His voice over emphasised the word murder, as if Sherlock might miss the word.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I'm not asking her to examine the body. And if you're so concerned about it then I suggest you stop repeating the word murder every other minute."

Lestrade shook his head, "You really are determined to push the limits of friendship with John aren't you?" he said with a small amount of disgust at Sherlock's apparent disregard of John.

It infuriated him.

As if John would let Sherlock get away with doing anything that would harm Ava. He'd said this morning that he trusted Sherlock, he'd not given Sherlock the list that he'd sat scribbing and then crossing out for thirteen minutes.

A small, tiny part of him twitched in fear though.

And how dare Lestrade imply-

"But Sherlock's Daddy's special friend." Ava's voice cut through the haze in Sherlock's head and he almost blinked at finding himself much closer to Lestrade than he'd realised. "That means they can put up with lots more from each other." Ava added, sounding as if she was repeating something.

Sherlock couldn't begin to unravel it, hidden clues and meanings lost by the fact that Ava could be paraphrasing and was unlikely to say it in exactly the same way John had.

Lestrade stared at Ava with something almost resembling worry. "There are limits_"

But Ava just shrugged, as if bored of the topic, "Usually Daddy just kisses Sherlock and then they make up." Ava said in a very matter of fact manner. "Daddy says it's the only way to get Sherlock to shut up."

Lestrade gasped and then seemed to attempt to cover it up. He looked as if he couldn't decide how to process that information. He looked to Sherlock for confirmation and Sherlock found himself sighing.

Well, he would have found out eventually. Perhaps it was better this way; it had seemed so unnecessarily dramatic to announce the change of his and John's relationship. There had been no way of doing it that hadn't sounded as if he needed Lestrade's dubious approval.

Ava, oblivious to any issue, just looked up at Sherlock in sudden panic, "Can I say shut-up if I'm repeating what someone else has said?" she asked, clearly attempting to wriggle out of trouble.

Lestrade still wasn't saying anything. He couldn't seem to get past the shock if Lestrade's body language was any indication.

"Inspector," Anderson's voice rang out as he approached from way up from the dip of the hill where Sherlock had disappeared earlier. "We've found something."

Lestrade was still staring slightly slack jawed at Sherlock, the words starting to sink in. His eyes skittered all over Sherlock as if seeking proof or a sudden difference-

"Is everything alright?" Donovan had made her way over too. "Sir?" she added, addressing Lestrade.

"Yes," Lestrade seemed to blink himself back to the moment at Donovan's voice. "Yes, what is it?" he asked, tearing his gaze from Sherlock but glancing back as if his eyes were magnetised.

It was unnerving and even Anderson had worked out something was amiss.

"We've found something," he said, shooting Sherlock a suspicious glare, before looking down at Ava.

"We had gathered that Anderson." Sherlock replied, hating the sudden attention for a moment. If John were here he'd have diffused this situation by now. "I assume asking for more detail would be pointless."

There was a sudden presence almost against his leg and he looked down to see Ava very close to him, watching with wide, scared ideas, her chin sunk down protectively into the scarf.

"You don't want to do that honey," Donovan said, bending over and using a coaxing tone, "Come away from him, he can be a bit of a psycho at times."

Psycho.

The word had been directed at him more times than he could care to keep count. Once it had amused him to record how many times he could make people say it in one dinner. More often than not the word blended into the background, a dull and unimaginative insult worthy of only a half-hearted correction that usually confused them.

But Ava looked surprised and around as if waiting for Donovan to be told off, her small mouth tightening in disapproval

"Donovan," Lestrade warned, turning his attention to her as well.

"What?" Donovan looked over at Lestrade, recognising the tone but not the circumstances.

"That's John Watson's daughter," Lestrade announced firmly and Sherlock could see dawning recognition in her eyes, "Sherlock's babysitting." Lestrade added, his tone sincere and calm.

But Donovan's mouth dropped and the idiot snorted in disbelief.

"What?" Donovan asked, as if Sherlock had just announced Anderson was an unparalleled genius.

Sherlock could feel his temper start to fray, suddenly very aware of the close attention Ava was paying to what they were saying.

God only knew what she was making of it.

"I'll text you if we find anything." Lestrade's voice was a welcome distraction, "We can wait until this evening when John's back. Take the girl home Sherlock," Lestrade said firmly, finally accepting Sherlock's earlier suggestion.

Walking away was not a natural instinct for him, far from it. He wanted to prod and poke at Lestrade, get reactions to determine what the man thought about this new relationship; not because the man would disapprove but because he always seemed wary for John even when they were flatmates. Donovan was just asking for it and Anderson was Anderson and Sherlock was struggling to remember if he'd insulted him more than the seven times he aimed for at every meeting.

Then Ava pressed herself into his leg, as if seeking protection or comfort.

The wind was making her shiver and a glance at her face showed she was utterly confused and starting to get upset by the atmosphere.

His hand reached out and he turned her by cupping the back of her head with a gentle movement. Donovan and Anderson seemed taken aback while Lestrade narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

He had more important things to do than deal with-

"Watson must be mad; if he leaves her with him too often she'll turn into some sort of mini freak."

Fury ripped through him, fierce and blinding and painfully twisted from the amount of reactions to that statement. The implication that John was a fool or an unfit father, the idea that he would allow what he could accept many saw as failings in him to affect Ava.

The idea that Ava could be viewed as an outcast because of him.

Donovan looked as if she wished she could swallow back her own tongue when he returned to her, stalking past Anderson, who had laughed, and avoiding Lestrade's eye, not wanting to see what thoughts might be in there.

He couldn't rant, he couldn't scream and humiliate her but he could make his feelings on the situation utterly clear.

"Repeat that," he snarled, his voice soft enough that Ava wouldn't pick it up from where she stood.

Donovan shook her head minutely and opened her mouth, a useless apology about to flitter out.

"If I ever hear a word against them cross your lips again I will have no hesitation in informing your fiancé of your shortcomings," he purposefully allowed his gaze to dart in Anderson's direction. "Past and present," he added with distaste. "And, if I were you, I would pray John doesn't find out what you said, especially as I no longer feel inclined to hold him back."

Anger and humiliated fury burned in her cheeks, until they were burned away from a look of startled shock that flared at the end of his hissed words.

And then there was guilt and…shame?

"You didn't care?" she asked with disbelief. "About my part in it all?"

"You give yourself far too much credit," he lashed out and turned on his heel almost catching Lestrade's fiercely stern look as the Inspector remained uncharacteristically silent while Sherlock snapped and snarled.

Ava was still staring at him, her eyes wide and lost. She looked so utterly alone against the empty field that he strode over, picking her up without the usual pause for the necessary calculation and assessment.

She wrapped her arms around his neck automatically, the way she did with John and snuggled her head into his shoulder, peering for a moment at the detectives before tucking her head into the crook of his neck and tightening her grip, as if he were the one that needed comfort.

He had no idea what to say to her. It worried him that any attempts at speech may end up as an unintentional interrogation as to what she made of it all.

It was disquieting how much he cared. Not since those first few months with John had he felt like this.

How had this happened? At least John was useful and had skills and application to Sherlock's work. John was a fully formed adult who was fascinating and complex.

No, the better question was how had she taken that rarely used organ that was almost entirely owned by John and wriggled out a space in it?

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><p>AN: I have no idea what people were expecting Sherlock to say to Donovan but, given that he barks out intimate details about her life left, right and centre there was very little left with to use!<p> 


	20. Part 2: Chapter Four

I have a sneaky suspicion that this chapter will not be at all what people expected. Warnings for...sentiment and logic I suppose!

Thank you so much for the fab reviews guys - I love reading them. My aim is to try and get up to "Bang Bang" by the end of the Easter Holidays, or at least before school really picks up again.

Hope you enjoy

P.S About to play Buckaroo with my little sister who Ava is based on and she's in charge of the rules. I have already been told "You're old so i go first!"

God help me!

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><p>John came home early and marched up the stairs in a way that had Sherlock frown. They were the steps of barely restrained anger and Sherlock could feel his own hackles rise in response. The whirlwind of thoughts and plots from the afternoon were fraying his temper and shredding his patience to the point that he started clenching his hands around the edge of the chair as John got to the top of the stairs and paused in the doorway.<p>

The mild mannered doctor looked as if he were trying to calm down which almost amused Sherlock.

"So Lestrade knows," John said leaning against the frame, with a deliberate manner to his actions and voice.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, daring John to ask more

But John continued on past it, "And you took Ava to a crime scene," he stated, his voice betraying very little other than he was annoyed at something.

"Yes."

"Are you alright?" John asked after a pause, but in the same firm tone.

"I'm thinking." Sherlock replied staring John down.

"Ok." John nodded far too calmly, "Have you had dinner?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes dangerously at John as the man finally straightened up and made his way into the kitchen.

"Lestrade phoned you?" Sherlock asked, watching John as he walked without curiosity or concern.

"Ava phoned me," John corrected opening the fridge, his drumming fingers almost the only sign that he was no-where near as calm as he was pretending to be.

Ah, the mobile phone. If Sherlock was lucky Ava might have made numerous calls to people.

"You phoned…" Sherlock trailed off, taking in John's attitude that was far more resembling one of a man who had just had a fight, "You went over there?" he asked, standing up and stalking through.

John studied an open tin of baked bins suspiciously and didn't turn, "Have you ever tried going through the switchboard? It's a pain," John sighed and dumped the tin in the bin.

"What did Lestrade say?"

"The phrase, "calm down" was repeated a lot," John said examining the fridge once more.

"Why would you-" Sherlock hissed in sudden fury and pushed the fridge door shut, causing John to angle back slightly. "You talked to Donovan."

John seemed to be weighing the statement up. "Yes," he said after a moment. "In a manner of speaking."

"I am not you; I do not need you stepping in and "helping"". Sherlock snarled.

John didn't flinch, "Don't be childish," he said far too calmly. "I'm not having a fight with you,"

Infuriated Sherlock did the only thing he could think of to spark John's temper.

He reached out, dug his fingers into John's hair and pulled him into a rather violent kiss; all teeth and nips that felt more like doing battle than anything else.

John sighed into his mouth and pulled back, "Fine," he said stepping back.

"Fine?" Sherlock asked, utterly blindsided.

"I'll have an argument if you're so desperate for it," John leaned against the fridge, "Do you have a topic in mind or shall we just see where it takes us?"

Sherlock slammed his fist on the table, "Do not treat me like a petulant child."

John rolled his eyes, "We've had that one far too many times." He said in disapproval.

It was utterly disarming. He had nothing to clash against and it was almost starting to feel like hard work to have a fight.

"I took Ava to a crime scene."

John nodded slowly, "I know, remember."

"And you have no issue with it?"

John frowned, looking confused (finally), "Why?"

"Lestrade did,"

"No, he had an issue with me being unaware as to where Ava was." John corrected. "And, as I told him that as far as I'm concerned the fact that she's with you is all I need to know, he shut up."

The anger he'd been trying so hard to hang onto just dissipated. "Oh," he said, rather blankly. Then his mind scrabbled and fought the lull, hating the way that John was almost managing to soothe him about this.

He didn't want soothing; he didn't want the false sense of security that would shatter when John finally worked out…

John tilted his head, "Ava said you've been quiet all afternoon." He said, trying to observe Sherlock. "Is it because of what Donovan said?"

A quick look at John told Sherlock all he needed to know about that, "Ah, they didn't give you the specifics," he shook his head and pulled out a chair from the table, "How they manage in their job-" he muttered, sitting down.

"Sherlock," John warned, "What did she say?"

Sherlock studied John, "Do you think I'm good for her?"

A muscle twitched furiously in John's jaw and temper sparked in his eyes. "What did she sa-"

"Answer the question."

"No, it's a stupid question," John said frankly, "You hate them."

"She implied that if you kept leaving Ava with me, Ava would turn into a mini freak." Sherlock said, keeoing his voice as matter-of-fact as possible.

John stared at him for a moment and then pushed off the fridge, striding towards the door.

"How romantic of you," Sherlock mocked, throwing John's words from the other day back in his face, "Sweet-"

"This is not the same," John snarled, turning to face him, hand on the door handle.

"I took care of it" Sherlock snapped back, "And need no help continuing to do so."

John took a deep breath and leaned against the door, his back to Sherlock.

"You're not a freak," John said eventually, his voice muffled by the door.

"Thank you for the validation," Sherlock spat with disgust, throwing himself out of the chair and storming towards the living room.

"You know I didn't mean it like-" John started to say, following him.

"I know you didn't mean it full stop," Sherlock plucked his violin up, intending to create such screeches that John would be forced to flee.

But John yanked the bow out of his hands before he could get a proper grip on it, "What does that mean?" he demanded, waving the bow slightly with temper.

"Give that to me," Sherlock demanded imperiously.

"No," John held it behind him, as if that were some deterrent. "What did you mean?" he snarled furiously.

"Last night," Sherlock snapped.

John looked lost, his confusion pulling him out of his anger, "What?"

"Your rather hasty retreat," Sherlock levelled his chin.

"I was tired, some of us need to sleep sometimes,"

"Unlike normal, conventional people," Sherlock asked, not caring that the statement was pathetically overly sensitive.

John raised an eyebrow, "Now you're just being stupid," he muttered, glaring at the ceiling.

"You rolled out of bed so fast-"

"I wanted to go to sleep-"

"I asked you to stay!"

"So you could sneak off into the living room?" John almost exploded. "So I could kick you out of your own bed?"

Sherlock stared at John startled.

"I'm not an idiot," John tossed the bow onto the chair by him. "There, you got your little fight. Bravo" He turned back to the kitchen.

Sherlock stared at the bow and then, in a fit of displeasure tossed the violin down next to it, mind racing. When had John woke up?

The smallest, almost nagging hint of…guilt?...rose up as he watched John's shoulders as he walked away. Tight, tensed, and strained. Sherlock glanced down at the discarded violin, a large part of him just wanting to play and lose his thoughts to the music, just for a little while.

But the other part of him acknowledged that maybe he had pushed John to the boundaries of patience and comfort over that past few days. And if John could skirt those boundaries then so could he, damn the consequences.

"I care for Ava."

John stopped and turned to him, "And?" he asked, his temper making him short.

Sherlock stared back, suddenly unsure of how to phrase his issue. But John saw, softened and stared at him with sudden gentleness.

John had a terrifyingly forgiving nature at times.

"You didn't know that?" John asked sounding disbelieving. "I thought you just didn't want to make a fuss."

"I didn't want to leave her alone in the car," Sherlock wanted to throw something. "Which was foolish and sentimental and utterly illogical because she was surrounded by police and I had taken every precaution under the sun but…I…"

John sighed returning to the living area but not quite to Sherlock, rather he seemed to be drawn to the window, sheltering in the dim light that was cast from outside, "Had every possible unlikely scenario flash through you head and imagined the very worst happening?" he said calmly, finishing Sherlock's thoughts.

Sherlock nodded once.

John stared out the window for a moment before refocusing on Sherlock, "I stayed up all night when she was born, convinced she was just going to choke in the middle of the night, or roll over suddenly and break her neck. And I'm a doctor!" he added with a self-deprecating half grin.

The attempt at placating humour annoyed Sherlock enough to wrench his morbid thoughts out from where they'd been festering in his mind all day, "Whereas I sat here all day imagining what would happen if Moriarty worked that out," Sherlock said coldly.

The sudden intake of breath startled Sherlock as John paled a little.

"Perhaps it would be better if we waited until after," Sherlock said after a moment.

John blinked and then scrapped his hands over his eyes as he worked out what Sherlock had been doing, then shook his head, clearly attempting to focus on what Sherlock was saying, rather than the images his words were creating.

John shook his head, "No." he said forcefully, "No, I refuse to give him that much power of our lives. Besides, we went through this at Christmas." John shrugged, "It's me he'll use."

He said it with such a casual acceptance that Sherlock saw red all over again.

"I can't guarantee that," he snarled, stalking forward, "I can't even pretend that I would try to guarantee that."

"The alternative-"

Sherlock swallowed and watched the understanding flare in John's eyes.

Next would come disappointment.

John seemed to consider his words hard.

"Sherlock," he took a breath and then seemed to change his mind, "You're like a bloody yoyo tonight," he muttered.

That had not been the reaction he's expected to get from informing John that he would rather sacrifice Ava than the man in front of him.

"She's a child. One you care about, deeply. But you haven't had that moment," John shrugged. "If it helps you at all, I think you probably will."

"What are you blethering on about?" Sherlock snapped.

"I love Ava. I always have. But she wasn't mine. Not until I got her the second time. And there is this sudden paradigm shift Sherlock. It's not just that she's a child or that you think she's cute or hellish, or hate seeing her upset. Suddenly the world tilts and…" John stumbled and shook his head, "I don't expect that she would be your gut choice at the moment, especially after all that happened."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "And you don't think that's odd?"

"I think that's normal," John said softly stepping closer. "But do you know what I think is the most amazing thing?"

Amazing? Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "What?"

"That the self-proclaimed sociopath has spent the entire afternoon feeling guilty about it. And worried about it." John said softly. "And the last five minutes confusing the hell out of me."

Sherlock drew in a breath, refusing to process those words as he stepped forward, "And do you know what I think is amazing?" he asked.

John, to his credit, narrowed his eyes and seemed to brace himself. "What?"

"Your sheer naivety that this is going to work and that you'll still manage to be a passable father."

John's jaw twitched and his arm stiffened, as if it was taking a lot of effort to resist reacting. He stared past Sherlock, clearly determined not to reply in case he couldn't keep a hold of the words that would flood out when he did.

Feeling hollowly satisfied, Sherlock bent to pick up his violin.

"I've never been under any illusions of achieving that," John said after a moment, his voice thick with so many emotions that Sherlock's head buzzed just trying to track them all.

"Don't be melodramatic John, that wasn't what I was insulting." Sherlock tried to work out how many times John had stopped him from playing now, distracting himself from that horrible sinking feeling that he so rarely felt and hated.

Silence lay between them, thick and heavy.

John broke it suddenly, "There are more important things to life than just being safe. There's being brave, stubborn, confident, independent, intelligent, creative, intuitive, and resourceful. Enjoying life" He swallowed, "I want my daughter to one day know how to keep herself safe and to be able to get whatever she wants out of life. And I never felt I was succeeding in that, until you became involved with us."

Sherlock scrambled for an argument, even as his chest felt oddly tight. His mind danced from one possibility to the next-

"And I honestly do think that one day there will be a day where you won't believe we ever had this conversation. That you'll probably delete it as a pointless fight because your opinion won't be the same as it is today." John reached out to open the window, distracting himself with the task. "But I will make two things clear Sherlock: I know, without doubt or hesitation, that you are a good influence on Ava and if you ever dare chose me over her I will ensure that you lose both of us in one fell swoop. Clear?"

"Crystal." Sherlock said after a moment, searching John's face for a lie or misdirection. His mind skittered away from his reaction when he couldn't find what he was looking for because, honestly, it wasn't right to feel that much relief and terror at once.

John nodded, "Then stop being such an insufferable arsehole and grow up. You asked for this; you begged me for this. And I'm not naïve enough to try and change you but I will not be at the mercy of your petulant moods either."

John reached down for the bow and seemed to consider it. Relieved that John's…lecture was over, Sherlock picked up his violin and held out his hand for the bow.

"Do you think I've had any influence on you?" John asked slowly, running his hand along the bow.

It made Sherlock wince, "Yes. Don't do that."

"You've changed me," John said, ignoring him. "I'm doing things I never thought I'd do."

"That's been obvious," Sherlock somehow managed to restrain himself from just tearing the bow out of John's hands.

Then John raised his head with a triumphantly dangerous look.

"Isn't it," he said, and with a graceful twist of his hand threw the bow out the window.

Sherlock stared in horror and then looked at John.

"Dinner?" John asked turning back to the kitchen.

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><p>"That was entirely childish and immature." Sherlock announced as he carefully placed the rescued bow back where it belonged.<p>

John nodded, "It was," he agreed easily, "So was trying to start a fight just because you felt uncomfortable. Call it even?"

Sherlock watched him as John read the cooking instructions on some frozen food with far too interest. "If you stay tonight," he said clipping the case up.

"I will if you will," John pulled the pie out and seemed to study it delicately as if it might crumble in his hands.

"There was once a time when you just said, "Yes Sherlock," Sherlock muttered walking to stand next to John.

"I'm sure you'll hear that at some point tonight," John said without any sympathy, placing the pies on the baking try with what could only be called relief. "Did you want one?"

"No." Sherlock looked at the frozen pastry with disgust. "What did Lestrade say?" he asked, hating the curious urge to find out rather than just wait and deduce it the next time he saw the Inspector.

John deposited the pies in the oven as if relieved to be rid of them. "About?"

"John," Sherlock growled warningly.

"He…told me to be careful." John leaned back against the closed oven, folding his arms as if expecting another row. "I think he was…is under the impression that you'd rather take up Morris dancing than admit to…being sentimental."

Sherlock stared at John hard, acknowledging the hesitant pause. "What did you say?"

"That I was aware of what you were like and had made my choice," John shrugged as if it wasn't important. "And that if that was his only concern then he could damn well say congratulations and take me out for a pint next week."

He moved to open the cupboard and Sherlock caught his wrist. "John-"

"Don't," John didn't pull away but didn't seem happy with the contact either, "We just had an argument about you admitting to caring about Ava. I really don't have the energy for anything more tonight. God knows what you'd do to compensate."

But Sherlock pulled him closer and John allowed it, reluctantly. "I do not do obvious," he said when their faces were close together.

John nodded, not quite meeting his gaze.

"And I know I can be difficult." Sherlock continued, just about feeling John's smile, they were so close.

"Thank you." he said after a moment.

John tilted his head, as if considering that. "I…ok." He nodded as though trying to make the words compute.

But Sherlock wasn't sure how to say more. How he could explain that John was doing everything right even if Sherlock was being slightly erroneous in his actions. And when John pulled away to continue dinner preparations Sherlock stood still, where he'd been left, his mind flicking through words and speeches and memories that might help him in this situation.

And then there was something, a niggling residual memory from one of his earliest cases with an aging man and a fifty year old mystery. An old song that the client had once crooned to his missing sweetheart.

He opened up the laptop and found what he was looking for, then, opening the violin case (again!) he started to play.

Eventually John wandered over, on his way up to see Ava.

"What song is that?" he asked, sounding half curious.

Sherlock nodded at the laptop and turned his back to John not wanting to see the look on his face, "I do not have the voice for these sorts of things," he said, not even risking using the windows glass to watch John as he read the lyrics

There was a long, long silence.

"Thank you," John whispered, before going up to Ava.

The moment he was out of the room Sherlock stopped, put the instrument away and looked at the lyrics on the screen before closing it up, the words imprinted in his brain as thick as parchment and ink.

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><p><em>You always hurt the one you love,<em>

_The one you shouldn't hurt at all._

_You always take the sweetest rose,_

_And crush it till the petals fall._

_You always break the kindest heart,_

_With a hasty word you can't recall._

_So, if I broke your heart last night,_

_It's because I love you most of all._

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><p>The song is "You always hurt the ones you love" and was performed by the Mills Brothers (among many). I don't actually think it would be all that easy to play on the violin but Sherlock is a genius so...you know...he'd manage.<p>

I don't know if this is confusing or overly sentimental or coldly logical or what...i suppose it could be seen as any...

I also didn't add in Sherlock's reaction to Ava's picture and I don't think I will - I will make references to it but I think at this point i would be a bit too much sweetness!

Hope you enjoyed :)


	21. Part 2: Chapter Five

**Huge apologies for the delay and the lack of replying to reviews - the new school is amazing (eek!) but I'm being overloaded with work - schemes of work, lessons plans (which is fab but doesn't leave a lot of time for this at the moment). With any luck it should settle down a bit but please don't expect this fic to be updated as frequently as it was in the Easter Holidays.**

**For those of you keeping track, this is the weekend before "Changing Rooms" in Paved with Love.**

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><p><strong>28<strong>**th**** January**

There was a delicious cocoon of warmth when he woke; the covers at that rarely achieved perfect temperature, the body next to him warm, solid and lulling with every relaxed breath.

Sherlock buried his head further into John's shoulder, nuzzling at the web of scar tissue lazily, testing to see if he could conjure the perfect replica in his mind.

It was satisfactory he mused, tracing the physical scar with his lips and reworking the version in his mind as he did so. In his arms John stirred, his back stretching against Sherlock's chest and then relaxing again as John settled back into sleep.

Not quite ready to move, which would mean disturbing the delightful balance he'd woken to, Sherlock shifted to ensure his legs followed the same lines as John's and trailed his free hand along the muscle of his upper arm, tracing the thin scar from a drunken night out when John had been at Uni and the slight difference where he'd broken his arm at the age of nine. He was just about able to find them by memory alone, although his ability to locate these markers wasn't quite as exact as he would ideally like.

It was always better doing this when John was awake.

"Wake up," he murmured in John's ear, voice thick with sleep. "Look,"

John scrunched up a little as if curling in on himself to escape the summons.

"John,"

"Mmm?"

"I stayed." Sherlock announced into his ear.

"k," John shifted his head on the pillow.

That was not a fitting response from John.

"I didn't leave-"

John clamped a hand over his ear, "G'way," he muttered, snuggling into the pillow as if to bury himself in it.

Sherlock sat up, fascinated.

John never had a problem waking up. He was always instantly alert, either from natural ability, medical training or army training. Whichever it was, he was always awake in seconds and coherent.

Except, apparently, when there was no need.

Delighted at this sudden exposure of a completely unseen and unsuspected side of John, Sherlock leaned over him, watching the reactive twitch of John's eyelids and the forming sulky frown.

It was utterly mesmerising and needed far more attention paid to it.

He stroked a line down John's nose and watched as it crinkled and the sulk became more pronounced. Not bothering to hide the resulting grin, Sherlock let his touch become feather light and ticklish.

And his army doctor batted at his hand with all the coordination of a seven month old. "Tickles," John complained, almost missing Sherlock entirely.

Sitting up and leaning was using far too much energy. Instead Sherlock attempted to turn John over, expecting him to be as pliable as he was after an orgasm.

Instead John resisted and seemed to somehow magnetise himself into position firmly. "Sod off," he murmured clearly trying to shift back into sleep.

So Sherlock climbed over him and settled down on the other side of the bed, noting that there was just enough space for him without falling off the bed.

"You moved, "John muttered yawning, "Made it cold."

An odd, protective wave surged and Sherlock reached over to make sure the covers enveloped John properly, "better?"

John patted out until his hand found Sherlock's knee. "'k."

Resisting the amused chuckle Sherlock studied John, his mind racing on all the data he could gather from this.

Slowly he reached down, skimming his hand across John's belly-

"Not awake, go'way," John complained, shifting so Sherlock's hand was no longer touching him, but still keeping his hand on Sherlock's knee.

Interesting.

Soothingly, Sherlock stretched out a hand and ran it through John's hair, frowning as the length prevented him from really dragging his hand through it properly. But John seemed to settle, the resentful frown fading away until he almost looked like a content cat.

It was impossible not to press a kiss to his nose and then watch the flash of disapproval that evened out again as Sherlock kept stoking. He moved, intending to gather John up but once again got a frown, though not for any other reason than the fact John was slowly starting to become aware.

"You stayed," John said, suddenly sounding much more awake as he drew a circle on Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock couldn't hold back the gleeful grin. "You're belligerent when you wake up early without a reason to."

John blinked at him and yawned, "Am I?"

"Very,"

John smiled, "You're oddly happy this morning."

"I woke to a puzzle," Sherlock flopped onto his back and tried to spread out, causing John to shift finally. "What could be better than that?"

"You want a diagram?" John asked, looking half amused and half resigned as he shifted to give Sherlock room.

"I offered that. You turned it down," Sherlock stared up at the ceiling.

"Really?" John asked curling up on his side again facing Sherlock. "Huh," he tapped his fingers in thought for a moment. "What's the time?"

"Six."

John muttered something uncomplimentary into the pillow.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock finally managed to roll himself out of bed and into the kitchen he was faced with a very curious five year old.<p>

"Where's Daddy?" Ava asked, clutching her bear to her and tilting her head to one side inquisitively.

"He…" Sherlock paused, unsure what the protocol for this was. "He's in my room."

Ava peered past him and at his closed bedroom door. "Why?"

"Because…" What was he meant to say? "He's still waking up."

Ava seemed to ponder this for a moment and then looked at the television. "But Horrid Henry's on." She explained. "He should be awake."

It was appalling that children kept time by cartoon programs. "You watch too much TV." Sherlock settled for saying, glad to be off the topic.

"Can I have poptarts?" Ava asked.

Poptarts…the terrifyingly pink and bright coloured things at the back of the cupboard that Ava had snuck into John's shopping when he wasn't looking.

Sherlock wasn't convinced they were breakfast material.

"No."

Ava seemed to accept that her request had been a hopeless cause from the start but followed him, duckling like, as he moved around the kitchen. "Are you going to have a fight now that Daddy's been in your room?"

Sherlock paused as he studied the kidneys through the blue plastic wrapper trying to work out when he'd last had them out and tried to follow the logic. "Why would we?"

Ava shrugged, "Polly Foster's Mum had a fight with one of her Uncles when another Uncle stayed over. And Fred Holloway's dad had a huge row with his mum when he had a sleepover at his friend's house. And-"

Sherlock closed the fridge. "Do any of the parents at your school remain in the correct bed?"

Ava frowned in confusion, "I don't know. Should I ask?"

John probably wouldn't appreciate that. "No. However in all those scenarios there were more than two people involved."

"I'm here." Ava said stubbornly, "That's three. And daddy's usually in my room."

It was foolish that his mind went blank as to how he was meant to explain the difference. "Do you want to have a fight with me?"

Ava's eyes darted to the cupboard. "I want poptarts."

"No." He would not be blackmailed by a child. It was undignified. Sherlock allowed himself a momentary flash of self-congratulation for not giving in to her.

"What does scenario mean?"

"John." Sherlock called, loudly. "Deal with your offspring."

* * *

><p>By midday John was sitting in the living area with a newspaper, cup of tea and clearly enjoying his hour of peace before braving a children's party.<p>

It seemed as good a time as any.

"I want us to go to a gay club tonight." Sherlock announced.

John paused, looked at Sherlock over the top of the paper and promptly ignored him.

"I know you heard me."

"No." John said calmly. "Anything you need picked up while I'm out?"

"Why?"

John folded up the newspaper with a long sigh and sat himself back. "Do you want a list?"

Sherlock watched him closely. John didn't seem annoyed or offended or even embarrassed. He simply seemed stubborn.

"It's for a case." Sherlock explained.

"And you need me to come with you to a gay club?"

"Yes.

John tossed the paper on the table, "No you don't. "

Sherlock tilted his head in some acknowledgment. "I want you to come with me." He amended.

John tutted to himself for a second thoughtfully, "You have no cases. We're still working on that little problem that is the psycho that's obsessed with you."

"Yes." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and huffed at the lack of comprehension in John's face. "It's owned by Katy Roberts."

Some dawning realisation crept in, but not enough to make Sherlock feel anything other than annoyance at the way the conversation was going.

"And I have to go because?" John asked looking far too wary.

"I'm not unattractive."

John stared at him a moment, then closed his eyes, even as his mouth twitched. "I'm aware of that," he replied, his shoulders relaxing as he seemed to finally work out where the discussion was heading. "But I have trouble believing you want me as your security for the night."

Bristling at the idea Sherlock glared, "No, but I would like a rather obvious reason as to why there is a limit on what I can do."

John didn't look convinced, "There isn't a person on the planet that can make you do what you don't want to do. And I've yet to see a situation where you didn't deliberately manipulate every bloody reaction."

"Clearly you haven't paid much attention to the conversations that have taken place in this room over the past month." Sherlock muttered sullenly and then waited, watching the way that John's expression slid from outright guardedness to contemplative amusement. The way his mouth pulled up from the firm straight line and made his eyes twinkle.

He could watch the shifting expressions all day.

Even if the entire exchange had proved John had a point about Sherlock's abilities.

"What do I get out of it?" John asked eventually and Sherlock just about resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the attempt to negotiate this.

"I'll pay," Sherlock offered.

"You never pay." John muttered, digging around the sofa for the remote. "For anything. I'm not being chased down the street again by someone who hasn't been fooled by one of your tricks or by some grateful client who won't shut up about how wonderful you are."

"As my partner you should be agreeing with them," Sherlock pointed out, deliberately not telling John that the remote was upstairs with Ava for some strange reason.

John flashed him a glare, "As your partner I'm not that thick."

"Well what do you want then?" Sherlock huffed.

John paused in his attempt to pull out the cushions, then carefully put them back in their rightful place and turned to Sherlock. "I will go with you as long as you agree I can leave whenever I want to and you can't complain about it."

"We're working a case, you cannot just swan off when the mood hits." Sherlock flung himself onto his chair angrily.

John watched him with narrowed eyes, "Then I suggest you don't do anything embarrassing."

"Like?"

John raised his hands as if he wished to throttle something. "I don't know, I'm sure you'd manage something. You'll ask some inappropriate question or announce the sexual history of someone I'm talking to."

"Why? What possible relevance would that have?" Sherlock asked, twisting about in the chair to face John who was watching him with bemusement.

"I…you usually manage." John huffed.

"It's a ridiculous request."

John stood and bent to the tv, evidently giving up on his fruitless search. "Ok, you choose. It's either that or you take Ava to the party and stay the afternoon." John flicked through the television channels. "Either way, I can only deal with one childish scene today."

"Fine. You may leave when you wish." Sherlock glared at the kitchen.

* * *

><p>The minute John and Ava left the flat. Sherlock bounded upstairs to their room and pulled out all of John's clothes.<p>

There were a few options, he decided approvingly and set them aside pointedly. The rest he was about to dump back in the wardrobe when a sudden thought occurred.

What was the point? John stayed in his room now.

It would be far more useful if the clothes were in Sherlock's room.

* * *

><p>Dumping the clothes on the bed seemed like a bad idea. If for no other reason that it might interfere when they got back tonight.<p>

And dumping them in the wardrobe was out too because he had the store of acids to one side and the different aged gum on the other.

God, he was going to have to hang it all up.

Dull.

* * *

><p>He was almost finished when he came across the beige jumper that John had worn many times over the years. The first instinct he had when originally faced with the woollen item was to accidently spill some stainable item on it – the bloody toes had been at the top of the list – but now he just dug his fingers into it and stared at the pattern.<p>

Foolish, he thought, shaking the sentimentality away. Bloody foolish.

But it looked strangely right next to his shirts.

* * *

><p>"And it was this big," Ava said, showing Sherlock the size of the balloon animal with her hands. "And it had ears and a nose and a tail and legs and-"<p>

"Have this," Sherlock shoved a poptart at her.

Ava stared down at it, "I had a million party rings," she told him sounding very earnest about the matter as she pushed the poptart away, "I don't need breakfast."

Sherlock had caught a glimpse of these "party rings". He honestly had no idea what the difference was in taste but at least she had stopped her list.

"And then Tommy went really green and-"

"WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?" John bellowed from upstairs.

Sherlock frowned and looked at Ava who looked suddenly very contemplative.

"If I put the wrappers in the bin you'd know I ate the sweets," she called back and then shrugged as Sherlock looked at her. "What? He would." She muttered defensively.

John came storming through the door, bypassing Ava and glared at Sherlock, standing utterly straight as if poised for battle.

"I haven't eaten sweets," Sherlock frowned.

John took a deep breath, "What have you done with my clothes? I swear if you put them in the bin I will put you in the bin."

Ava's face scrunched up, "His legs are too long to fit," she complained.

"They're in my room." Sherlock ignored her. "It seemed foolish to have you running upstairs in the morning."

John stared at him for a long moment, but the anger snapped away from him and he looked as if Sherlock had just started to speak in broken English and he had half understood the meaning.

"Ava…watch TV" John ordered and grabbed Sherlock, dragging him into his room and shutting the door.

"Do you understand what you just did?" John asked patiently stepping back.

"It was hardly difficult to move your clothes-"

"You moved us in together." John rephrased pointedly.

"From upstairs." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't be so…cliché."

John sighed, "Is this your room or our room?" he asked after a moment, the smallest hint of nerves wavering his voice.

That sounded a little…advanced.

Sherlock looked around, at the wardrobe, the full shelves and the poster on the wall. The books on the table next to his bed and his organisation of the important objects he had collected over the years.

"It's…a work in progress."

John shook his head with a huff of irritation. "You are moving my clothes back," he said backing up slightly.

"No."

The Watson glare was turned on him. "You moved them, you move them back." John hissed with a flash of temper.

"No." Sherlock folded his arms stubbornly as he stood against the door.

There was a long moment when he thought John might attempt to throttle him. Then John just turned on his heel and stormed towards the wardrobe.

"I wasn't saying I wouldn't do it, I was saying they weren't moving back." Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.

"But you want to keep this as your room. That's not how this works-"

"I want you in it more than I want laughing gas in it." Sherlock huffed staring at the ceiling in distaste.

There was a pause.

"You have laughing gas in here?"

"You're missing the point," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the stain on the ceiling, sure that it hadn't been that big last time he'd looked properly.

"You don't need to force this," John started to say.

"Would you just bloody well leave the clothes in there and get changed." Sherlock exploded. "I have no wish to whine about this. It is happening and that is that."

"That is that?" John repeated incredulously.

"Yes."

"Ok." John said and let his hand drop away from the wardrobe. "But you left the clothes upstairs." He added, gesturing at Sherlock blocking the doorway, sounding vaguely peeved.

"And I assume you have some issue with that too?" Sherlock snapped.

"Yes. But…" John sighed, "I can drop it."

Sherlock glared at the opposite wall until John broke his fixed gaze with a kiss.

"You're sure-"

"For God's sakes." Sherlock muttered against John's lips. "Enough."

John just chuckled against his mouth and swept his tongue in.

* * *

><p>The club wasn't the most popular place, but it was half filled and had relatively quiet areas in which it was just about possible to hold a conversation.<p>

John had set himself up at the bar with a sigh and a beer order which had received a speculatively amused look from the bartender who seemed to be lingering on the misapprehension that John was trying to look straight.

"You aren't being very helpful," Sherlock complained as he wandered back to John after getting all the information he could from Tony who had been a bouncer for years at the club.

John sent him a sidelong look, "I really can't follow your logic with this," he admitted, putting his beer down. "You'd get far more information here on your-"

Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand, spotting another target and wandered over.

* * *

><p>When he looked back half an hour later it was to see the bartender and John in deep conversation.<p>

The bartender was leaning rather close but he was also relaxed, chatting eagerly to John.

It was annoying that John never seemed to realise how brilliant his natural gift was to get people to talk to him, to trust him quickly.

Sherlock waited until the bartender moved down, away from John to serve another customer.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Well what?" John asked calmly.

The club was getting busy; it was unlikely that the bar tender, who had once worked directly under Katy Roberts at her favourite club before he fell from grace, was going to have time to spare lavishing attention (and information) on John again.

Sherlock tugged at John who suddenly looked panicked.

"What are you doing?" he yelped.

"Dance." Sherlock ordered imperiously.

"Ah…no," John squirmed firmly into his seat as if determined to grow roots and anchor himself permanently to safety. "No. You just go and collect your information-"

"You're getting far more than I." Sherlock replied calmly, "But that seems to have dried up at the moment."

Curiosity flared and John glanced around and then down the bar. "Wait…but you've been flitting about with all these sources-"

"I may as well be useful." Sherlock tried pulling again but John resisted easily. "He would never have told me as much as he's told you."

"But…" John shifted, "I wasn't asking him anything-"

"I'll translate what he said. Observe from what you tell me." Sherlock scowled at John. "Later. But now I want to dance."

"I don't," John reached back for his beer and held it between them like a shield. "Go dance with…him," he said, vaguely gesturing in a way that could be directed at anyone.

"John," Sherlock pressed up against him, placing his mouth to John's ear. "Why not?" he purred delighting in the way that John stifled a groan at the sound of his voice.

"I…" John took a swig of beer, causing Sherlock to shift out of the way a little. "I can't dance." He muttered eventually.

Sherlock pulled at him again, "Please."

And then grinned when John's shoulders dipped in defeat and he downed the rest of his pint. "So help me if you laugh," John muttered with a sigh as he let Sherlock pull him up, as if about to be led to a public hanging. There was an unhappy slump in his shoulders that didn't seem to be fading away as they moved closer to the dancing bodies. So, taking pity on the man and changing his mind, Sherlock dragged him to a shadowed corner, slightly apart from the crowd and almost hidden from general view.

Then dipped his head a little to brush his mouth against John's. Over and over again until John gasped into his mouth as Sherlock pushed him against the wall.

"This is not dancing." John groaned as Sherlock let his hands roam.

"It's the oldest dance in the book," Sherlock replied, slipping one hand underneath John's shirt as the other reached for the handle to the closet he'd found.

They stumbled backwards inside and Sherlock quickly shut the door behind them, locking it with a flick of his hand. Then, as John blinked in sudden confusion, twisted them and dropped to his knees.

"Oh this is classy," John breathed, stroking a hand through Sherlock's hair.

"Problem?" Sherlock didn't bother to look up as he quickly opened John's trousers.

"No. Just amused it took until my late thirties for my teenage fantasy to come true."

Something unfurled in Sherlock and he ran his hands up John's thighs possessively. "He wanted you." He said, thinking back to the bar man and the way he'd leaned close to listen attentively to John while dragging his eyes over Sherlock's doctor's frame.

"Did he?" John almost turned as if he would be able to see through the door and Sherlock was torn between snorting with laughter and pinching him in annoyance.

Instead he brushed his nose gently against John's very interested cock and looked up to see John's attention suddenly utterly focussed on him.

"No more noise," Sherlock told him, "For all you know there's someone pressed up against the other side of the door right now."

John's jaw dropped a little as he let out a rather shaken gasp and swallowed deeply.

Then Sherlock did the same.

* * *

><p>Next Chapter: Sherlock decides to drag John along to Robert' more frequented clubs and they bump into a face from John's past. Meanwhile Ava seems oddly quiet...<p> 


	22. Part 2: Chapter Six

I'm so sorry about the wait! Real life and all that jazz!

Just as a note - I will be jumping this on rather quickly to the end of Feb after this chapter - mainly because I'm struggling to write this in such detail. So there won't be Sherlock and John's visit to the school. For those of you who love the Ava and Sherlock interactions I can tell you that you will see loads of it, please remember that this story will continue on way past what happened with Paved with Love and, if you've picked up the hints, it's very apparent just how much Ava and Sherlock time there will be.

I have written John's pov for the entire year after Paved with Love. I want to hold it back for quite a few more chapters of this fic but it will be added to "When his hour will come." I'll pop a note in this fic when I post it.

Thanks for all the lovely comments last chapter :D. They were really lovely.

Hope you enjoy and angst is abound in this chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>31<strong>**st**** January**

It was their third night in four days spent at one of Roberts' clubs. John was staring to get ratty with everyone he came in contact with, which had been vaguely amusing when Mycroft had attempted to demand information from him yesterday.

"You could at least pretend to look interested," Sherlock commented as John ordered drinks.

John threw him a filthy look, clearly not wanting to shout back to make himself heard over the music, eventually settling for the childish option of just flipping Sherlock off and glaring at his beer.

Sherlock sniffed and picked his drink up, weaving his way through the crowds. Between them they manages to get quite few different types of people talking to them; Sherlock seeing out the less talkative ones and John drawing the others to him. It had worked surprisingly well.

Within two hours he had managed to talk to the assistant manager, a prominent drug dealer whose name he vaguely recognised from years ago, a rather high class prostitute who looked bored while her banker discussed something with Roberts herself and, amusingly, Roberts' nephew who seemed to think he was god's gift to everything with a pulse.

It had been an acceptable night. It would be better to leave now rather than continue to draw attention, especially as Carl Roberts had seemed rather taken with Sherlock.

Sherlock weaved his way back through the masses that were cramming their way to the dance floor to where John had been sitting, only to find an empty place and a dead beer.

John had been sitting at the bar when Sherlock had last glanced over. Approaching the seat carefully Sherlock glanced at the inebriated patrons and then at the bar staff.

"The man who was sitting here," Sherlock leaned over the bar to call into the bartender's ear as she opened a few bottles of some sugary looking pink thing. "When did he leave?"

She threw him a look as if to imply she had better things to do, but then saw where he was pointing. "John? He saw an old friend." She replied easily.

Trust John to be on first name terms with a twenty two year old medical student.

Who would it have been, here? Sherlock stared at the beer for a moment.

John had left it behind for Sherlock to see.

"Small, dark haired-" Sherlock begun, mind racing at the thought that Moriarty might have-

The girl glanced up at him, "No, he was a big guy, greying."

Sherlock hissed in irritation at the pathetic description. The only thing he could conclusively glean from it was that John's "old friend" hadn't been Moriarty.

The club was too loud for a conversation and he'd been near the VIP area that Roberts used to entertain and discuss business. John hadn't come anywhere near the area.

Outside then.

Sherlock stepped out onto the frosty night, the sudden lack of thumping music a relief that granted him back his hearing. It suddenly seemed to quiet and it took a moment to reacquaint himself with the change in temperature and volume. The pack of smokers suddenly became audible, huddled together as they were, under the shelter and around the heaters. His eyes scanned the pack, dismissing as he glanced.

Until he caught sight of a familiar shadow, cast from a window light stretching around the corner.

Stepping out of the enclosed area, Sherlock made his way over, quietly.

"-of all people should understand what I'm trying to do. You know the situation over there-"

"That's not a justifiable reason," John hissed, seemingly mindful of the smokers around the corner. "What you're doing is wrong." He argued, sounding annoyed but uninjured and unafraid.

The thumping pulse in Sherlock's chest slowed a little at the sound.

"For Fuck sake's Watson, are you still that green?" The man exploded fiercely. "I could excuse it when you were still wet behind the ears and some idealistic twenty odd year old but not now."

"Excuse it?" John breathed sounding livid, "You could excuse me giving a damn about the sanctity of human life-"

"Don't give me that bullshit. It's war. Us or them and we want to win, otherwise why bother with it?"

Something terrible weighted down in Sherlock's stomach as he finally placed the voice that had been nagging at his mind ever since he'd first heard it.

John was having an argument with Sebastian Moran.

"Because most of the people that you attack with this will be civilians. Or just following orders. Or-"

"A necessary sacrifice to keep the majority safe."

John let out a frustrated, twisted laugh, "We've had this argument," he said eventually, "You know my thoughts on it."

"And Holmes?" Moran asked.

"You work for Moriarty." John said in a way that Sherlock could tell was accompanied by a serious shake of the head. "For now that is all he cares about."

It was an intriguing answer that begged more questions than it answered. Sherlock filed it away carefully for another time.

"Moriarty has vision," Moran said after a moment. "Funds, resources. He's a crazy bastard but effective."

"He's a snake." John muttered, "He'll turn on you the moment it suits him."

"Of course he will," Moran seemed amused at the idea. "But then you and I have fought in a real war, without minions obeying our every word. We know how to finish it without any games."

There was a very long pause and Sherlock eyed up the exit he'd just come from, assessing whether Moran had done this on his own or whether Moriarty was somewhere, watching.

It seemed unlikely.

"You should go," John said eventually.

"To be confronted by the unit that's been sent to reel me in?" Moran sneered. "I don't think so John."

"You hate London-"

There were steps, Moran was walking towards John. "Scared? Believe me; I have no interest whatsoever In Sherlock Holmes. Keep him away from me John, because I will have no qualms about putting a bullet in his brain."

"Nor I you," Sherlock said calmly, stepping out from the shadows.

John threw him an unimpressed and slightly bewildered look. Moran was a breath away from crowding John but John looked more annoyed at the sight of Sherlock than at Moran's aggressive proximity.

Moran's shoulders heaved with displeasure and he turned. There was a long look over and Sherlock could read the vague recognition from the few times their paths had crossed during Sherlock's five year chase.

Then he was dismissed.

It was infuriatingly offensive. Moran just turned back to John as if Sherlock was barely worth a flicker of interest.

"One warning. For old time's sakes." Moran reiterated before stepping back and striding off.

"We're going home," John said firmly, turning before Moran was out of Sherlock's sight.

* * *

><p>"Tell me this is an attempt at humour?" Sherlock asked as he climbed the stairs behind John.<p>

"No," John snarled as he reached their landing and moved to continue up the stairs.

Amusement cut through the brewing fury as Sherlock paused on the landing and watched John climb the stairs, clearly still on automatic. It was obvious from the pace of his climb that he wasn't going to realise his mistake until he got inside Ava's room and was faced with an empty space where his bed used to be.

There were more positive aspects to the whole sharing a room idea than he had imagined. But while John was stomping around Sherlock might as well put the kettle on.

Two minutes later John skulked into the living area with an embarrassed hunch of his shoulders.

"I dismantled the bed," he said, staring at the table.

"Yes," Sherlock held two empty cups to him, clearly indicating what he wanted.

John, still distracted by his mistake, took the cups and took over making the tea. "You didn't think to remind me?" he asked.

"I doubted you would respond well," Sherlock sat at the table.

John sighed and tilted his head up to the ceiling. "You think I'm over reacting," he said and turned, "Don't you?"

Sherlock reached out to trace the bowl in front of him, "You're being hypocritical," he said tightly. "For months I have had to put up with you whining that I was being over protective and yet, now the situation is reversed, you're adamant that I need to suddenly duck and cover."

"This is not the sam-"

Sherlock hurled the bowl at the wall opposite in a sudden pique of fury. "How is it not the same?" he asked into the sudden silence afterwards. "Never have I ever said to you that you should hide."

The kettle clicked without any attention being paid to it.

"Because this isn't the same, "John braced his hands on the table, leaning forward to meet Sherlock's gaze. "This isn't something that either one of us can predict or control. If Moran points a gun at you he will fire and he will kill you."

"Moriarty-"

"How many times has he threatened to kill you and how often has he done it?" John asked. "And I'm not saying Moriarty isn't dangerous, because he is, but you can usually do something, somehow, to change his mind to wriggle out. You cannot play Moran like that-"

"Watch me." Sherlock sat back with an arrogant smirk that he could see was infuriating John and shaking the fragile control John was trying to coat himself in. "Just because you were incapable of playing his game-"

John's jaw jutted out and he pulled back, almost to attention. His eyes scanned Sherlock 's and then he yanked the chair out from under the table and sat opposite Sherlock.

"He won't play," John over emphasised every word as if Sherlock was some small, unruly child. "How can you not get that through your thick head?" he asked, his hands almost curling into claws. "He won't be as gracious as Moriarty and give you prior notice that something's about to happen."

"Please," Sherlock pulled back, "Do you not think I can tell when someone is about to strike?"

"You didn't at Christmas," John snarled.

"You distracted me."

There was only a fraction of a moment that showed the sudden hurt in John's eyes before John stood suddenly, his chair scrapping against the floorboards as he moved. Sherlock stared at the wall opposite as he heard John walk into their room and pull open the wardrobe door to look for spare blankets and a pillow.

That had probably not been the right thing to say, but honestly John was being a Neanderthal about this. And stubborn, and moronic and insulting.

The more the list went on, the firmer Sherlock's resolve became. Let John throw him out onto the sofa if he was going to be such a-

There was a momentary flutter of panic when John walked back out, dressed for bed and with the clear intention of being the one sleeping on the sofa. John was meant to throw him out; he was younger and more adept at curling up on the damned thing.

It felt far too much like a step backwards to have John leaving his room.

But he remained fixed in his seat, glaring at the wall; his fingers curled around the edges of the table as if he intended to snap it in half. John started to nest himself on the sofa in stony silence.

"You are being insufferably stupid," Sherlock grounded out between gritted teeth.

There was a long silence, as if John were determined to ignore him and then:

"Just stupid or a stupid distraction?"

"A stupid, overly sensitive distraction," Sherlock snapped.

"Then by all means, piss off into your room," John hissed.

Our room. Our room! Damn it!

But Sherlock pressed his lips together, until he as sure they were white with the pressure and didn't say a word.

Then John switched the light off and plunged them into darkness and shadow, the light in their room still on.

Sherlock started to drum his fingers on the table loudly. He would not be the one to give in and go into the bedroom.

John said nothing.

The drumming turned into a repetitive thud that was as without rhythm as possible, designed to irritate John more.

Unfortunately it seemed he had underestimated how tired John was because, just when he was starting to annoy himself with the noise, John snored, clearly in a deep sleep.

Livid, Sherlock stormed into their room and slammed the door, hard enough to wake even Mrs Hudson downstairs.

* * *

><p><strong>1st February<strong>

"I'm going out," Sherlock announced imperiously to John at half two in the afternoon as he strode out the door.

"Fine," John snapped, "And if you get shot, thank them for me for sparing me the effort."

"I'll thank them for giving me an escape from your pathetic insults." Sherlock snapped back.

* * *

><p>Sherlock purposefully came back as late as possible and indulged himself in the foolish sentimentality of quietly opening their bedroom door and checking on John.<p>

John who was fast asleep and, though he had clearly started off huddle to one side of the bed, had stretched out a hand to Sherlock's side.

He looked less tired then he had yesterday. A good night's sleep would improve his mood even further.

Sherlock eyed the blankets that John had used last night, trying to decide whether using them himself tonight would make things better or worse.

And whether he wanted to make them better or worse.

Debating, Sherlock closed the door gently and walked back into the kitchen, pouring himself a whiskey and then stared down at the amber liquid, hands braced on either side of the glass on the kitchen counter.

His phone went off as he picked the glass up and threw himself onto his chair in the living area.

_You are aware that John has a point? MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a sip as he started to type out a reply.

_You are aware that you're a complete-_

He was startled out of the text by a creak at the door.

Ava stood, almost hugging the frame as she peeped at him with exhausted, bright red eyes and a trembling chin.

A sinking sensation wormed into his chest at the sudden idea that she might have heard their fight last night. She looked so miserable that guilt just welled up and strangled him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, putting the phone and his glass down, intending to go to her. But as he spoke she just flew across the room, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Concerned, he bent down and lifted her into his lap, his worry soaring as she started to press into him, as if to hide away from the world.

He was utterly out if his depth with this and that feeling only grew as she started to sob in his arms.

And if he and John had caused this…

""Shhh," Sherlock said almost desperately and glanced over in the direction of the bedroom. John needed sleep but Ava…he felt her tiny body rack with tears as he started to rock her in what he hoped was a helpful manner. This time it was impossible not to press a firm kiss to her sleep tousled hair. "I'll get John"_ he stared to offer but Ava shook her head fiercely.

"No," she hissed between sobs. "You can't tell him, you can't, you can't you can't," she repeated over and over again, as if the words were vitally important.

What the hell was he meant to do?

Lost, he tightened his grip on her, mind racing. It had to be something else; she would have broken to John before this evening if she were just upset about their fight. Something in him unclenched at the idea that he hadn't upset her, right before something else fluttered in terror at the sort of things that might upset her that she wouldn't want John to know about.

If anyone had dared hurt her…

Aware that he was almost shaking in anger he forced himself to relax.

"Calm down, shush, it's alright, just breath," he ordered as he touched his fingers to her chin with infinite care to get her to look up at him. Her blue eyes were splashed with tears, cheeks wet and face flushed from her sobs. She hadn't slept; her messy hair had to be a product from tossing and turning in worry.

"Tell me then." Sherlock instructed gently as she stared up at him with those large trusting eyes.

"You'll be upset," she whispered, looking hesitant.

It took a lot of will power not to react to that, not to just demand that she tell him what the problem was so he could fix it. "Tell me," he said, keeping his voice even.

Ava sniffed, looking unsure and buried her head into his shirt again. Sherlock stared at the direction of the bedroom door, silently praying that John would be along soon to help.

Ava seemed to be struggling with what she wanted to say. What if someone had threatened her not to say something to John?

Unbidden his mind raced through one terrible scenario after another-

"You won't get mad?" A little voice asked eventually.

There was no way he could promise that.

"Not with you," Sherlock stroked her hair, trying to keep his movements slow and steady. Calming. "Never with you," he added against her curls.

"Promise?"

"Promise." He agreed.

"No-one at school wants to talk to me." She sniffed, "I didn't mean to tell, I didn't. I really didn't and now I've made everything bad."

Relief flooded him. Made him almost dizzy with the sudden ability to breath easily again. He stared upwards trying not to let her see just how relieved he was.

And how suddenly annoyed he felt, though that was idiotic. To a five year old having friends was the probably one of the most important issues they could face. And thank god for that.

Once he was sure he was calm he looked back down at her. "If you're having problems with your friends_"

Wait.

His mind raced back over what she had said and he studied her.

Ava was far too much like John to be this upset over her friendship group being disrupted, and she'd certainly had no problem telling John about such problems before.

"What do you mean you didn't mean to tell?" he asked.

Ava's chin danced again as she bit her lip, "S...S..." she shook her head and Sherlock cupped her face with both his hands, forcing her to look at him properly.

"Tell me," he said, trying to keep his mind from racing to conclusions.

Ava looked utterly reluctant and was looking at him as if…

…as if she were afraid of upsetting him.

"Sean Tenner said you and Daddy are going to go to hell because Daddy sleeps in your room."

What?

Who the hell was Sean Tenner? And who the hell cared about his insipid opinion?

Ava apparently. She looked so utterly confused as she started to ramble that Sherlock just stared at her.

"I didn't meant to tell," She started to sob again, "I didn't and now everyone knows and they're mean to you and it's all my fault."

Her chin wobbled again and she looked so utterly distraught at the idea that people had been mean to him and John that Sherlock could do nothing but pull her against him again.

Ava cried her little heart out against him and in between sobs he could hear her apologising for telling people that he and John were kissing.

"What the-" John blinked as he stood in the kitchen, "What happened?"

Sherlock stood as John suddenly tore himself out of his shocked stance and reached for Ava. Ava went to John without protest, curling around him as John took her weight and cupped the back of her head with a gentle mummer.

"Calm down," he soothed, rocking them both gently. "Shush," he continued in that calm voice, even as his eyes raised to Sherlock's questioningly.

* * *

><p>In an unspoken agreement, they waited until Ava had cried herself to sleep before Sherlock explained.<p>

"Evidently the children at school have discovered that you and I share a room."

John turned to stare at him as he pulled back from settling Ava onto their bed. "What?" he asked in a dangerous voice.

"They told her we are going to hell." Sherlock explained further, staring at Ava's tiny frown as she slept and curled up fist.

John dragged a hand through his hair, spiking it up unintentionally. "Why didn't she tell me?" he asked sounding more as if he were talking to himself, and then swore. "She was trying to get out of going to school tomorrow." He added, sounding guilty.

"She didn't want to upset you."

"I'm her bloody father," John hissed. "That shouldn't come into it,"

"Perhaps she is merely taking after you," Sherlock commented.

John whirled furiously, "Do not make this about us," he snarled quietly.

"I'm merely pointing out that it is irritating when someone is trying to protect you."

"She's my child," John stormed over to where Sherlock sat, perched at the end of the bed. "She is not meant to even think about protecting my feelings. You however, are the bloody minded idiot who throws himself head first into danger because you think you're invincible-"

"I'm a genius, not delusional." Sherlock snapped back quietly. "And I do not need you protecting me-"

"Yes you do," John breathed, "You need protecting from the bloody toxic waste you insist on storing in the bathroom cabinet to start with."

"That cabinet is locked-"

John grabbed his elbow and steered him out of the room. Sherlock took one look at Ava and, with a sigh, let him.

"I will not apologise for being concerned about your safety." John said as he shut the bedroom door. "Especially as you have the common sense of a gnat."

"Common sense is a meaningless term batted around by those who lack the intelligence to see it as such." Sherlock muttered crossly.

"No, it's ignored by those too thick to see that they're suddenly no longer protected by a mad man who likes puzzles." John stabbed a finger into Sherlock's chest.

"My problem is not that I do not realise that, my problem is that you are insisting that I run away like some frightened dog." Sherlock batted John's finger away, "My problem is that you don't think I can deal with this."

"You can't." John pushed. "I can't. Mycroft can't. Short of backing off we can't. And if we back off then we have Moriarty to deal with."

"So you're issue is that we're trapped?" Sherlock hissed.

"Yes," John snapped back.

"John for god's sakes that was ridiculously obvious from the very start." Sherlock took a deep breath. "Are there any other blindingly clear observations that you would like to make?"

John seemed to gather himself up a little, "If I wasn't here-"

"John-"

"If I wasn't here then you wouldn't be in half this mess."

"No," Sherlock agreed mildly, "No, I probably would have been shot last night by Sebastian Moran."

John sighed and leaned against the wall silently.

Sherlock stared at their bedroom door.

"Sherlock, what are the chances that-"

"Don't" Sherlock cut John off before he could hear the rest of the sentence. Before he could hear John ask their chance of enduring, their chance of winning.

Their chances of both surviving this.

"Don't," Sherlock repeated, softer this time and saw John swallow deeply, as if burying back some painful emotion.

Sherlock ignored the shudder in his bones at the thought.

John drew in a long breath, "Right," he said hoarsely, and then cleared his throat to start again, "Right, well if we're agreed that we're sick of both of us trying to protect each other then maybe we can go overboard in protecting Ava."

Sherlock nodded slowly, "Who's Sean Tenner?" he asked.

John shrugged, "No idea. Why?"

"He's the one you can thank for Ava being convinced that we are "damned"".

John thudded his head against the wall. "How the hell are you meant to explain this to a child?" he said after a moment. "Sorry sweetheart, but there are some religious people, some ignorant people some chauvinistic people and some overly traditional people who think what me and Sherlock are doing is unnatural, wrong and immoral. But it's ok because if Sherlock gets annoyed by it he starts talking about how much fucking lube we use at night."

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock muttered, leaning against the opposite wall and facing John. "My implication was to play up to whatever they were derisively suggesting was wrong with us. Owning the implied fault."

John glared at him, "How is that helpful?"

"They think we're damned?" Sherlock smiled wolfishly. "Then I suggest we act like the devil incarnate."

John closed his eyes as if pained, "They are children Sherlock. I would rather not be lynched by angry parents."

Sherlock stepped forward, intending to press his point. But, the closer he got, the clearer it was just how exhausted John was.

"You should sleep," he said eventually as John watched him and stifled a yawn.

John nodded, "Yeah," he admitted, "but Ava-"

Sherlock moved to the bedroom door, "We need more data." He said simply. "Deciding on a course of action now would be premature."

John pushed himself off the wall with a nod.

Inside the room, Sherlock gazed down at Ava who, at some point during his and John's conversation, had curled up like a kitten on a cold day. John quietly moved behind him, stripping off the jumper he'd yanked on then making his way to his side of the bed.

Dragging his eyes away Sherlock reached for the blankets in the wardrobe.

"What are you doing?" John asked softly.

Sherlock looked at the blanket and then at John.

Taking a deep breath at what he saw, Sherlock turned and carefully replaced the blanket. Without bothering to get undressed he just toed off his shoes and socks then sat gingerly on the other side of the bed, trying to work out how sleeping with the pair of them in the bed would work.

Watching him carefully, John gently pulled Ava close to him, giving Sherlock room to get onto the bed. Inexplicably nervous by the situation, Sherlock wriggled about until he was in a semi comfortable position on the bed.

""Do you want to pretend that she's a toxic waste substance?" John asked with some amusement. "Would that be easier to deal with?"

Sherlock glared up at the ceiling before rolling to face John. "I have barely accepted having one extra person in the bed when I sleep, let alone two."

John pressed a thoughtful kiss on Ava's hair, "Do you want me to take her upstairs?" he asked with some concern. "I could probably squeeze in with her. I just don't want her waking up alone."

Sherlock took a deep breath and reached out a hand to stroke Ava's cheek. "No," he said eventually.

John pulled her even closer to him, "Come here," he said after a moment.

Obediently, but cautiously, Sherlock scooted a little closer until he and John were face to face and Ava was at his chest level. John watched him carefully, as if waiting for some sign that he should get up and take Ava with him.

"Go to sleep," Sherlock said after a moment, shutting his eyes against the worried gaze.

* * *

><p>It took John almost an hour for his breathing to even out and dip into natural sleep. The moment Sherlock was convinced that he was in a deep slumber he opened his eyes and studied the pair in the dark.<p>

It felt like he watched them for hours. Both Ava and John seemed worn out by the week's events and barely moved they were so exhausted.

Sherlock reached for his phone and sent off a text. It was a sign of how much consideration Mycroft had given that it took an hour and a half to get a reply that, despite the fact it was the early hours of the morning, was utterly without a snarky tone.

_Running will only make Moriarty chase harder._ MH

Nodding to himself, Sherlock deleted the message, just as he had with the one he had sent and placed the phone on the bedside table quietly.

He'd suspected as much.

* * *

><p>Just as a note (another one!) I know Moran saw Sherlock at xmas but I kinda want to show that Moran isn't that worried by Sherlock - he knows that he could kill him if he becomes an issue so why be that fearful? I thought it would make a change to not have Sherlock be the centre of the "bad guys'" universe for a change.<p> 


	23. Part 2: Chapter Seven

Thanks for the reactions from the last chapter :)

And, in typical fashion, I changed my mind and we're still at the start of Febuary!

* * *

><p><strong>February 2nd<strong> (Thursday)

It had never been his intention to say it; the words had just slipped out.

Sherlock stared ahead at the television, the screen blank and the little red light glaring accusingly at him. The image of Ava's thoughtful little face as she had tried to understand the basic concept of homophobia emblazoned in his mind's eye.

_They think we're wrong to love each other_.

Love.

It was hardly a foreign concept. On some level Sherlock could accept that he had been surrounded by familial love all his life: from his quiet coward of a father who had a gentle unobtrusive love; his domineering mother who had a fierce and determined love and Mycroft who had an interfering version. There had been his grandmother for whom he'd felt a curious fondness for and an Uncle who had indulged his love of science and experiments. That was the kind of family connection that bound people together; that insisted no matter how terrible they were as a collective they were still summoned together at births, marriages and deaths despite having little in common. It was as old as time and inscribed upon most humans. The kind of love that demanded protection and provision and that was as inescapable as the blood in his veins and the carbon dioxide in the air.

But that wasn't the love he was considering.

There was a choice involved in this. He could choose how he felt about John Watson. He could choose how to define the word that he was expected to use in reference to the only partner he had ever consider using the word for.

Love was a word battered around by the masses, by foolish teenagers who thought they knew the world and all it had to offer at their tender age, by cheating spouses who excused their actions as inescapable and by the ordinary, dull and insipid.

There was no clearer example than his own parents. His father; who was so monotonously dull that even Mycroft, who could discuss issues with moronic minded politicians all day, could barely manage a few hours a year with the man, was a classic example of someone who placed all blame upon loves door. The first affair, that Sherlock had inadvertently revealed, was excused with fevered justifications from a man who claimed to be in love with two different women and a slave to both. Who, despite weighing claim to the emotion many a time, had never truly shown any such feelings by his actions.

That love was meaningless and barely worth the time or effort it took to lay claim to it.

Then there had been his mother. Strong, stubborn and fiercely determined who loved with everything she had, and tried to fix everything she loved. There had always been room for improvement, always some distant goal to aim for.

If that was love then he could quite happily claim to feel nothing of the sort for John.

Lestrade loved his ex-wife. Loved her to the point of weakness and his own downfall. While Sherlock's mother had torn the object of her affections to shreds, Lestrade had shredded himself trying to forgive and forget.

Sherlock wasn't that selfless.

Mycroft had fallen in love, foolishly in love as a young man. He had put on an act and a show, spoiling the young lady and performing like a true thespian.

Sherlock wasn't that patient, or that dedicated. John accepted him as he was; it therefore seemed foolish to take that from him or pretend otherwise.

Molly had loved him from afar. She'd swallowed down his thoughtless comments and suffered through his blind eye. She'd endured humiliation and, at some point, had accepted that her love was unrequited.

Yet despite that she had helped him, offered him whatever he needed and never complained about the burden he placed on her.

Sherlock weighed that up for a moment and then dismissed it as a sort of love he was likely incapable of.

He wasn't that good a person, no matter what John might say.

In the end he filed the issue away for another day. John hadn't pressed for more information but had simply left Sherlock to his thoughts.

Besides, even three patches weren't helping solve this problem.

* * *

><p>While John distracted Ava with some animated cartoon at the cinema (and there wasn't enough nicotine in the world to bribe Sherlock to go to that) Sherlock made his way through Scotland Yard's office and to Lestrade.<p>

The Inspector shoved something into the closest drawer when he spotted him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade looked a little flustered. "Did you…why are you here?"

Interesting. Sherlock swept his gaze over Lestrade; "They pulled you in…" Sherlock tilted his head, taking in the mismatched socks and the remaining stains of a hasty breakfast eaten on the go. "Very early…" He added, spotting the mountain of coffee cups in the bin behind Lestrade.

"Sherlock-"

As Lestrade was often pointing out, he was hardly the only Inspector on the force. Which meant Lestrade had been called in ridiculously early not because he was the next senior officer on shift but because…

"What was the threat?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Threat?"

"Yes, the threat." Sherlock snapped, "The threat against me, what was it."

Lestrade sighed and pulled open the drawer behind where he was braced against the desk and pulled out the folder barely looking at the brown card.

"He was found last night, near one of Roberts' clubs. Some officer thought it was you at first."

Sherlock pulled out the photographs of the bloated and water logged body, noting the superficial resemblance to him.

And the neat bullet hole in the centre of the forehead.

"He wasn't weighted-"

"He was meant to be found." Sherlock closed the folder. "Do not let John see this," he ordered.

Lestrade took a deep swig of coffee, "You can't keep him in the dark again Sherlock."

"I have no intention of keeping the information from him, merely the pictures."

"He's a doctor-"

"I don't want him reminded of-" Sherlock broke off and closed his eyes, centring himself and shutting out Lestrade's almost sorrowful expression. "He does not need to see this."

Lestrade nodded sharply. "I'll send out a memo."

Sherlock barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, even as his mind skittered away from the look on John's face at St Barts all those years ago.

"Why are you here anyway?" Lestrade asked tucking the folder away again and seemingly eager for a change of subject.

Oh, yes. That.

"I have come to make a complaint."

Lestrade shot him a disbelieving look and then stood up and walked around to his side of the desk. "God, what now?"

"There's been a case of gross homophobia."

Lestrade sat down looking pained. "Right…" he said, sounding doubtful.

"At Ava's school."

Lestrade blinked at him. "Are you taking the piss?" he asked after a minute.

"I can assure you I have better things to do with my day." Sherlock replied haughtily. "You however can be spared to do one of those god awful assembly talks."

"I would have thought that assemblies would have gone the same way as your knowledge of the solar system." Lestrade muttered, taking a deep sip of coffee and glaring at him over the rim.

One day he would make John pay for that bloody blog.

"Yes, well, when you are forced to sit and listen to an in depth summary of the damned event every Tuesday, Wednesday and every other Friday, it seems a waste of time continuously deleting."

Lestrade shifted forward, "You want me to go to a primary school and tell a bunch of kids off?"

"Yes. Consider it your useful deed for the year."

Lestrade studied him and glanced down at the drawer that still held the folder of the unfortunate murder victim who had been killed as Sherlock's only warning from Moran.

"I assume this will be the point that you insist I do not insult your team members for a case." Sherlock said, disliking the contemplative pity that was starting to creep on to Lestrade's face as he clearly toyed with the idea of just saying yes to Sherlock's request.

Thankfully his words did their work and Lestrade tore his gaze back up, seeming to shake himself. "Four." He said, starting the negotiation.

Sherlock let him have two.

* * *

><p><strong>4<strong>**th**** February**

The man had been engaged, had a son who was three months old and had been returning to work after a long illness.

Sherlock stared at the file unsure how to feel about all that.

It wouldn't help; feeling guilty. It would help nothing at all and he'd had no part in the death of Adam Garret. Still there was a twinge of something that Sherlock intended to use as anger and ferocity against Moran.

* * *

><p>When he got back into the flat it was to the smell of fresh paint and shrieking laughter echoing from upstairs.<p>

Ava's infectious giggles and John's soothing, amused tones drew him up the second flight of stairs like a magnet to north.

Inside Ava's room, John and she stood admiring their handy-work. John was in an old t-shirt and jeans that had seen better days while Ava was swimming in another of John's old shirts that covered her leggings and t-shirt underneath. The pair of them were streaked with lilac, pink, powder blue and a sunny yellow from their testing session.

Which apparently included just painting pictures straight onto the wall.

A closer look at the wall revealed that Ava had been practicing her letters with the thick paint brush that was in danger of dripping paint onto the floorboards. Their names were scrawled messily across the smooth walls.

John, Ava, Sherlock.

Though it looked as if John had needed to add in a few letters to their names to correct her work.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, observing Ava carefully.

The power of a child's mind was truly amazing. A few treats; some time and affection lavished; and a long, careful talk had erased all of her worries. To look at her one wouldn't know that she'd been sobbing her heart out days ago, convinced that she'd caused trouble for him and John.

In fact, she was now staunchly stubbornly protective about their relationship. He'd caught her watching people when he and John had taken her out to the shops as if gauging their threat level and narrowing her eyes at anyone who looked too long.

As if either one of them needed a five year old defending them.

It was strangely gratifying though.

"Look," Ava launched towards him, having spotted him at last. "We're painting," she told him, waving the saturated brush dangerously close to his coat.

Thankfully John caught her with a deft hand and spun her up so that her head lay on his shoulder thoughtfully.

"I can see, Sherlock replied, eyeing up their work.

Ava wriggled a bit and John obediently let her loose again, watching as she darted away from them to the paint pot in the corner.

"You should escape," John said after a moment of watching her, "You'll be covered in paint if you stay up here much longer."

Sherlock nodded, but then something caught his eye in the opposite edge of the room.

_I believe in SH_

Stunned he walked over, pressing his hand against the almost dried paint.

"Daddy told me that people did that all the time while you were away," Ava announced proudly. "We saw one of the bank ment."

"Embankment," John corrected gently.

Ava nodded, as if she'd said the correct word to begin with.

He'd heard of it. Dimly. Back then it had been too raw to follow the English news too closely and too dangerous in case there had been a mention of John that he may not have been able to ignore. But there had been a brief run in a French newspaper that had been impossible to ignore. It had showed the graffiti that had started to spring up around London, detailed clients that had fiercely refused to belief that he could have been a fake.

Sherlock had given in and scoured that newspaper for days before deciding that following the situation truly would just distract him. But it had certainly given him the jolt he needed to snap out of the contemplative guilt that had been stirring within his gut for the first four months as he lay low so as not to arouse anyone's suspicions.

Refocusing he narrowed his eyes at the message now painted on Ava's wall in a sugared plum colour. There was something about the writing…

It wasn't John's typical hand – far too thick for a natural paint stroke and too arty for John – and yet he had replicated almost perfectly the aged and faded paint smears that Sherlock had glimpsed left over from the campaign all those years ago.

"You followed it," Sherlock muttered, examining the lines.

"Daddy said we did one once." Ava curled up close to John's legs, catlike in her approach. "At night time when I was a baby."

Sherlock turned to John with some disbelief and John just shrugged.

"Well…that hooligan owed me," he said avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "Raz showed me how to do it."

Sherlock glanced back at the message. "Where did you write it?" he asked.

Now John really was avoiding his eyes, "Oh…it was years ago." He said bending to the paint tins. "Besides, Lestrade was far better than I was."

As a distractive topic John had picked a good one. The image of Inspector Lestrade grafitying was both amusing and…well. There was a traitorous stir of sentimentality in there too.

It was also supremely stupid to give him the name of two people who could tell Sherlock where John had scrawled the message.

"Right madam," John said when Sherlock remained silent, chasing his thoughts around as he stared at the wall. "Which colour shall we have?"

* * *

><p>It took twenty minutes to work out why John looked uncomfortable revealing where he had written his message.<p>

Sherlock had visited St Barts, stood at the pavement, the scene of his greatest deception but he had never walked to where John had gotten out of the taxi, to where John had stood during that phone conversation.

And, there on the side of the building that had helped to block John's view, was a message.

It was done precisely but the repetitive lines showed that John had shook as he had used the spray can. It was yellow, a throwback to one of their earliest cases together.

It wasn't the whole message. Just the words "I believe."

And, at the end was a hand print and a smaller one next to it.

It was incredible just how small Ava's hand had been. She couldn't have been more than a few months old when John had done this. It was terrifyingly small and suddenly Sherlock could imagine the scene with crystal clear accuracy.

John, shaken, tired and haggard, painting in silence under Raz' watchful eye. The baby asleep in the mild night or watching with curiosity.

Had John intended to leave the message as it was or had he been unable to continue?

For once Sherlock didn't want to know the answer.

* * *

><p>They didn't speak about it. When Sherlock came back in, John watched him in a way that told Sherlock John knew exactly where he had been.<p>

John put Ava to bed and washed up while Sherlock stared at the television again, unseeing despite the sitcom that he usually hurled insults at.

And so what if, in bed that night, Sherlock felt a strange need to be oddly careful with John. To keep the night slow and quiet, hiding John away from the world. To press gentle, careful kisses to his skin.

He'd hoped that would be enough, that his guilt would assuage when he reassured himself that this time he would keep John safe from deception, that this time he wouldn't be the one to hurt him.

"You ok?" John asked, brushing a curl away from Sherlock's forehead as they lay next to each other afterwards.

"Yes." Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. "Thinking."

John remained silent and traced a lazy figure of eight over Sherlock's chest, as if he were a cat that needed petting and soothing.

Eventually the hand stopped moving as John tired.

"I'd do it again." Sherlock said into the long silence.

John's head, on the pillow next to his shoulder stiffened, and he raised it to look at Sherlock.

"Leave?" John asked, his voice almost steady.

Nodding Sherlock continued that list, "Lie, hurt you."

There was an age of silence before John dropped back down to his previous position. Without a word he seemed to resettle himself into the bed and against Sherlock, though every move was ebbed with tension.

"You would do it again, or you will do it again?" John asked eventually.

"I would do it again in a heartbeat given the other option I had that day." Sherlock tucked an arm behind his head, still staring resolutely at the ceiling.

"Sherlock-"

"I don't know."

He hated saying those words but until he could manage to define this "love" thing he honestly didn't know.

He didn't know if he could be that selfless, if he could give up what he had gained without hesitation.

John reached out a hand and slid it through the one of Sherlock's that was resting on his chest.

"Go to sleep," John said gently.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

There was a long sigh in the aftermath, then John was moving them both, turning Sherlock and wrapping himself around his back.

"You want to ask what for." Sherlock told the opposite wall.

"Do you want to tell me?" John replied sounding utterly awake now.

Not really, but it seemed pointless to duck out of the conversation that he'd started.

"For being me," Sherlock told the wall. "I will hurt you John. I have hurt you."

There was a smoothing touch on his hip as John contemplated that. It was foolish to wait for a reply; after all, what could John say to refute it? Pointless debates about Moriarty's blame in all this was useless; it still ended in the same conclusion.

Sherlock had sought Moriarty out and played his game once upon a time. All that happened now would be a direct result of that, and to survive Sherlock would have to hurt John in many ways before the end.

"You are who you are," John's voice drifted out of the shadows. "Anything else wouldn't be the man I love and choose to be with."

Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably but reached down to pull John's hand from his hip and link it with his own.

"Moran sent me a warning."

"Is that what you've been working on?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded against the pillow, making John's lips brush his neck with the movement. "A body with a passing resemblance to me was washed up a few days ago."

It was impossible to tell what John was thinking. "Are you sure Moriarty had nothing to do with it?" John asked.

"No he-"

Sherlock sat straight up as blinding realisation hit. "Oh." he said eagerly, "Oh!"

"Oh?" John asked, sitting up in a much more slumberous manner.

"You are brilliant!" Sherlock reached over and pressed a fierce kiss to John's dazed lips, ignoring the confused look. "I'd forgotten just how useful you can be with that."

John flopped back down on the bed. "Cheers."

"Don't you see?" Sherlock launched himself out of the bed, throwing on his dressing gown.

"Clearly not," John huffed.

"He told us, he as good as told us!" Sherlock could feel his mind racing, blustering through the maudlin mood that had struck him earlier and blazing a path of inspiration.

John rolled over and buried his head in the pillow with a groan, muttering something under his breath.

"Get up," Sherlock yanked on John's arm eagerly, "I need to think."

"It's one in the morning-"

"You can never tell when inspiration will hit!" Sherlock bodily pulled John up and got a glare for his effort.

"Get up" he insisted, tearing out into the living room and putting the kettle on for John to make the tea. He was humming with ideas now, strategizing and discarding as needs be.

Moriarty and Moran. How many contacts had Moran brought to Moriarty, how much weight did he hold. Moran was respected by those he met, he had a fearsome reputation and a reliable track record.

Moriarty on the other hand was dangerous, a threat to all he touched and without mercy or morals.

There would be tension, Sherlock thought, pacing. They needed each other, may even respect each other for what they offered, but it didn't mean they liked each other, or that they even tolerated each other.

Tea was placed carefully on the table as John sat down, hair wild, t-shirt rumpled and yawing his way to his tea.

"I've been looking at it wrong," Sherlock announced looking down at John triumphantly. "I've been thinking that we're trapped."

John raised an eyebrow. "We are," he said firmly.

"No, don't you see? It's blindingly obvious-"

"Spare me the lecture and just tell me," John warned, wrapping his hands around his mug.

Sherlock sighed, "Moran on this side," he gestured with his left and, "Moriarty on this side, us in between."

John flickered his gaze to Sherlock's hands. "Right."

"They're apart."

John stared at him, "Right."

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, "Listen and pay attention."

"I am." John shifted.

"Do you think Moran likes Moriarty?"

"I-" John narrowed his eyes, "No." he said eventually. "No, it would irritate him that Moriarty has others do his dirty work."

"Moran likely gave Moriarty most of his military contacts, possibly more than that. Moriarty gives him criminal advice, contacts, funding, a network of power. But Moran isn't a follower."

John sat back slowly, "You want to turn them against each other."

Sherlock smiled, "Yes."

John put his mug down, "How?"

"Moriarty wants me alive and Moran wants me dead."

John's jaw dropped, "No, absolutely-"

But Sherlock was already moving, kneeling in front of John and placing his palms on John's thighs. "You were the one who said it, John. You told me not to make you wait for the day they came for us."

"That's not exactly what I said."

"I paraphrased." Sherlock dismissed the issue. "I can do this John. I can play them against each other. Moriarty's games against Moran's practicality."

John looked ill. "Sherlock-"

"I can do it." Sherlock lifted his hand to cup John's face earnestly, "I swear to you. I can do this."

John just closed his eyes in response.


	24. Part 2: Chapter Eight

Sorry again for the long delay. Not only am I now sort of in charge of a class (the class teacher is off sick for a few weeks) but uni work is due in tomorrow at midnight.

So obviously I now have to update the fic! God forbid I actually do the silly essays early!

And, back to the fic, this is very bitty. I struggled no end writing this because I need to get certain information in but I really don't think I'd be updating for months if I tried to detail this stage of Sherlock's whole plot with Moran. So it's snippets i'm afraid.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>10<strong>**th**** February**

"You want to what?" Lestrade shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief. Gaping he turned to look at John who was sat quietly in the chair by the door. "Is he havin' me on?"

John just shook his head looking rather long suffering in Sherlock's opinion. "Believe me, I have been through this with him all week." He shifted in his chair, "And you still haven't heard the best part."

Lestrade huffed in a breath and glared at Sherlock. "There's more?"

Sherlock turned slightly in John's direction in warning before refocusing on Lestrade. "Irrelevant to you." He said shortly. "I fail to see your problem with this; you will still get a conviction."

The chair creaked as Lestrade leaned back, "You want me to sit on evidence?" he asked looking unhappy at the idea. "So you can set puzzles for Moriarty?"

"Technically you don't even have to do that. You simply have to restrain yourself from asking for help." Sherlock allowed himself a dramatic pause, "Which I realise will be hard for you."

Lestrade exchanged an aggrieved look with John. "Why not just hand over the evidence for Roberts' arrest if you're trying to piss Moriarty off?"

"Oh how simple your mind is," Sherlock sighed, "I am attempting to play Moran and Moriarty against each other, therefore I need to keep Moriarty's attention." Sherlock smiled, "To give Moriarty a puzzle I need to give him something to lose. Business contacts may be the only thing he will show some vague concern for."

"And this helps how?"

It was so painful to talk to the Inspector at times.

"He's making Moriarty gamble with business assets which will annoy Moran." John explained with some annoyance. A quick glance at the doctor showed John was rubbing at his forehead with his hand.

Lestrade twisted his gaze between Sherlock and John, mouth gaping like the goldfish Ava had tried to persuade them to "adopt" from the street stall at the weekend.

"Even you couldn't fail to understand that rather obvious explanation." Sherlock huffed as Lestrade seemed no closer to formulating a response.

"You're mad," Lestrade breathed, "Your bloody insane. Does your brother know about this?"

Sherlock couldn't help but see that rather smug way that John leaned back in his chair and paced to get him out of his eye-line. "Yes." He replied sullenly.

"And he's agreed to this?" Lestrade asked sounding fiercely doubtful. "I can't bloody believe you've agreed to this." Lestrade added at John.

A scathing remark leapt to Sherlock's lips but John was there before it could leave.

"It's a case of damned if we do and damned if we don't." John sounded exhausted, as if he'd been chasing the thoughts around his head for the past few days. The tone was enough to allow that slither of doubt to creep and grow.

But Sherlock clamped it down fiercely.

He needed to give this more thought.

* * *

><p><strong>14th February<strong>

John looked distinctly uncomfortable as he sat in the chair and glanced around for the umpteenth time. In fact his shoulders hadn't relaxed since they'd entered the pretentious restaurant.

"Relax," Sherlock murmured as he sipped the wine. "You're destroying the illusion."

John fiddled with the menu. "No-one is going to buy this."

"Not if you keep looking as if I've dragged you here rather than the other way around," Sherlock muttered, not needed to feign disinterest at the setting. There was barely a challenging person in the place if he discounted John. All the patrons were desperate to be seen at the fancy restaurant; some having affairs and most showing off in some way.

It was all exceedingly dull.

In fact John was the only thing making it somewhat interesting which was an annoyance in itself because John was meant to be acting like the contented partner, oblivious to Sherlock's boredom.

John let out a long breath, "Couldn't we have just gone to Angelo's?"

"It wouldn't have had the same effect." Sherlock flickered his gaze towards the specials board. "Don't order the pork dish," he advised.

John glanced up at him and then at the board. "I assume it's better that I don't ask."

"Probably." Sherlock replaced the menu carefully and was then lost for an interesting subject to stare at.

"So…how far are we taking this?" John asked, a finger fiddling nervously with the shirt button on his wrist.

Sherlock shrugged, pained as he was to do it.

John barely supressed the amused smirk that threatened to cross his face, "Wow, that's very dedicated for you."

"You need to improve your acting skills, "Sherlock glared at the fork that lay neatly on the table. "You are lucky we aren't being listened to."

"Give me some credit," John muttered. "If we were being listened to, I would act accordingly."

"I doubt it." Sherlock muttered and then resisted the fond smile as John sent him an entirely feigned look of hurt and worry.

"You're sure they can't read lips?" john asked after a moment.

"We are at the wrong angle for them to attempt it with any degree of accuracy." Sherlock assured John, pleased that his partner resisted the urge to glance at the two that had followed them the moment they'd left the flat. "Are you certain you can manage this?" he asked after a moment.

"Not really," John shifted in exaggerated nervousness. "But, as you said, it's the only possible deception we can try."

It was. It was also infuriatingly insulting to John and their relationship but it was also their best chance. They needed a reason to explain Sherlock suddenly engaging Moriarty in the manner he was planning and this had been the only reasonable explanation that Moriarty would not only accept but take great delight in.

Still, it grated on Sherlock's nerves, and he could just imagine Moriarty's crowing reaction when should he buy their act.

It was going to take a lot of effort to do this convincingly.

"Is this not how you imagined our first Valentines?" Sherlock asked, watching the window in the mirror.

"No," John said bluntly. "I hate bloody Valentine's day," he added quietly.

Damn the man for being interesting when Sherlock was meant to be looking bored to tears. "Why?"

"Have you dated many women during February?" John asked.

"No."

"You should. It's an experience." John took a sip of wine and then frowned, "Though not now," he added, suddenly realising how his words had sounded. "No matter how new the relationship you're always expected to suddenly fake undying devotion for a whole day and stand at Sainsbury's trying to work out which box of chocolates is the best suited and which flowers will work well and which restaurant…" John broke off with an annoyed wrinkle of his nose. "I was looking forward to…" he smiled looking pained suddenly, "Not faking it."

Slightly unsteady Sherlock glared at John. "I do not do flowers and chocolate."

"Poisons and ice cream then," John offered.

"And you'd feel no temptation to mix the two together?" Sherlock asked after a beat.

"After tonight I do."

"What would we have done?" Sherlock asked. "Were we not trying to convince Moriarty that I'm bored enough to need a distraction."

"Honestly?" John asked. "I have no idea. Just something that was us. Go to a crime scene and not have to rush back for Ava or just argue over whether you should play the violin over the top of CSI."

"It's an idiotic show." Sherlock sulked.

"Still better than this," John straightened up, clearly spotting a waiter making his way towards their table. "Especially as you're probably going to order something ridiculously overpriced and boring."

The man was infuriatingly wonderful at the most inopportune moments. Moments like when Sherlock was trying to look uncomfortable and bored. As John smiled at the waiter with a polite air and a fake laugh Sherlock couldn't help but add another reason to the quickly growing list of why he hated Moran.

And tried to think of a suitable and acceptable way to make it up to John next year.

* * *

><p><strong>16<strong>**th**** February**

Strangely, as he approached the flat, the light was still on. A quick glance confirmed that it was indeed twenty to four in the morning which made the whole thing rather curious indeed, especially as John had left Sherlock to set the final puzzle piece for Moriarty in favour of getting back to Ava.

The minute he opened the door he heard the reason for the light. There was a rather violent, hacking couch from someone far too little to cope with that easily.

Ava was ill.

There was an irrational twisting in his gut that made Sherlock want to back out of the door again and disappear back to the game he had set Moriarty. There would be nothing he could do to fix this, nothing he could do to help. It was John's territory; healing and fixing, not Sherlock's.

But Mycroft had seen him back (the camera's had all turned fractionally as he walked as if to ward of a stray bullet that might be aimed at Sherlock) and the idea of giving Mycroft that kind of ammunition was even more distasteful.

Inside the flat, John was stood in the middle of the two windows (good, safe) and was rocking Ava as he held her in his arms. Her head was pillowed against his shoulder and her fists clenched in his shirt. It would have been almost…sweet…had it not been for the deep couch that seemed to be spewing out of Ava and making her little body shudder against John's.

"She's unwell?" Sherlock had no idea why he phrased it as a question. It was entirely obvious that she was sick.

But John, rather than jump at the chance to point out Sherlock's ridiculous error, just nodded, looking exhausted himself. Sherlock watched as John shifted Ava a little and looked him over carefully.

"You ok?" John asked eventually, still rocking Ava gently with smooth, soothing motions.

Sherlock nodded distractedly noting the same clothes that John had been wearing yesterday. "She's been like this for hours."

"It's easing off." John pulled his head back a little to study Ava's face before brushing his lips against her forehead. "You should go to bed." He offered.

John had been sent back to get some rest. John was meant to be in bed now. Sherlock frowned, as Ava's sleepy eyes cracked open slowly and she stared at him without any of her usual spark.

Then another cough started and he could see them both wince from the force of it. John tried to soothe but it didn't seem to be doing much good.

"Surely there is a cure." Sherlock snapped.

It was a clear sign of how tired John was that he glared furiously at Sherlock. "She's been given medication, cold drinks and even ice cream to soothe her throat. There's only so much I can give her before I start making her worse, unless you, in your great wisdom as a university drop out would like to make a suggestion."

Amused Sherlock stepped forward, "That was almost cutting," he said reaching for Ava. But John resisted, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock muttered still holding out his arms.

For a moment it looked like John was about to relent, but then he shook his head, "I'll hear her anyway. There's no way I'll sleep through her coughing."

Turning on his heel Sherlock marched into the kitchen, ignoring John's quiet sigh. The bottom cupboard had been the last place…

Retrieving the small pieces, Sherlock returned to John and held out the palm of his hand, the ear plugs resting quietly.

"Try," Sherlock suggested.

"You need to sleep as well," John yawned even as he spoke.

"I slept last night." Sherlock pointed out.

John closed his eyes and then snorted, "Fine." He took a deep breath and held Ava out to Sherlock. "I'm not arguing with you."

Sherlock bent a little to accept Ava and frowned at the heat that was coming off of her. "She has a fever?"

John shook his head, "It's not bad. She's worked herself up over the coughing."

Another coughing fit started, as if on cue. John froze as he turned towards the bedroom and Sherlock could see the indecision on his face.

"Sleep." He ordered.

"If you need me-"

Rolling his eyes Sherlock glared at the ceiling, "It's a cold John, not the bubonic plague. I will manage."

John moved a little closer towards the kitchen, "And you aren't just going to dump her upstairs the moment I get into the room?"

Hurt flashed before Sherlock could register it. The idea of leaving Ava upstairs on her own as she grew more and more exhausted and worked up over the coughing seemed…

Both cruel and logical.

After all, there was nothing they could do for her but wait the cough out and pass the time until the medication took effect. But, just like previous times, Sherlock found both his mind and body refused to put the little girl down.

Wordlessly he just shook his head and watched John soften.

"Sorry, I'm-"

"Tired." Sherlock finished for him. "Which is why you need to sleep." Really, it was hardly a difficult logical leap to make, even for John.

* * *

><p>Ava finally fell asleep an hour later, the coughing finally subsiding enough for her to get some rest. Sherlock sat on the sofa, Ava curled up on his lap with her head on his chest as she seemed to find it easier to sleep like that rather than horizontal.<p>

Which was how John found them when he appeared at twenty past eight the following morning.

"Did you sleep?" John asked handing Sherlock a cup of tea carefully.

"I hadn't planned on doing so anyway." Sherlock took a sip before placing it on the side and then retrieving his phone. "I had things to set up."

"You're starting it today?" John asked, sounding nervous.

"I started it last night." Sherlock replied easily. "I am continuing to set up the next stages."

"Last night?"

Danger.

There was that tone; that tone of voice that Sherlock was learning to heed. The tone that implied John was having a hard time deciding how best to throttle him and was trying to sit calmly to decide on a method.

"I would have told you, but we had other issues."

Looking almost apoplectic, though obviously mindful of Ava, John's fingers turned white as he gripped the mug.

The phone that he was currently texting on started to go off and Sherlock raised his eyes to John's after reading the number on the screen.

They sat, staring at each other for a moment before Sherlock carefully pressed to answer the call and raised the phone to his ear.

"This is a pleasant surprise," Moriarty greeted him. "I don't think it's my birthday."

It was irritating how decidedly off balance he felt with John still glaring at him and Ava in his lap while Jim Moriarty talked in his ear. "I do hope you aren't phoning for clues. Not this early on."

"No, no. I'm looking forward to it. But it is most unlike you to set the puzzles. Does your pet approve?"

Sherlock met John's eyes. "John agrees with anything that gets you out of our lives."

Moriarty laughed, "You're bored," he singsonged. "Playing happy families doesn't suit you Sherlock. It's dull."

Sherlock remained silent, unwilling to confirm or deny. But his breath hitched with the needed to say something in return-

"How much longer do you think you can last?" Moriarty continued on. "Before the monotonous tedium drives you mad?"

Sherlock searched John's eyes. "Tick tock Jim." He said and hung up the call.

They sat in silence for a long minute.

"He bought it?" John asked eventually. "That you're bored with me and Ava?"

Sherlock nodded ad tucked Ava's head under his chin. "It was almost pathetic." He muttered with some disappointment.

John rolled his hand behind his neck, "Is that the first contact you've had with him since Christmas?"

Sherlock nodded and then dawning realisation hit. "I didn't contact him last night, merely set everything in motion for this morning."

Visibly relaxing John nodded and then stood, clearly intending to shower. Reaching out carefully, so as not to jostle Ava, Sherlock caught his hand.

"Despite the ruse that we have to play, I promise you. Full partners."

John nodded, "I get it, I do. I get that playing it this way gives us the only advantage we can get but-"

"I know." Sherlock squeezed John's hand carefully. "I know."

* * *

><p>Moran's anger was felt the two days later when the wall behind Sherlock exploded in brick dust and shards of glass and paint strips from the bullet that he narrowly dodged on his way back from a crime scene.<p>

Sherlock ducked back into an alley, a few quick, calm turns kept him out of sight and allowed him to lose his assailant, whichever hired hand it had been.

Leaning against the bank wall, Sherlock took a deep breath. It hadn't been Moran that had fired; he'd be dead if it had been. A quick check of his phone showed that it was after half past three and chances were that John would arrive back at the flat with Ava before Sherlock could get in and tend to the scrape on his neck from the bullet.

John didn't need to know how close it had been.

Mrs Hudson's bathroom would do. At least there was some use to her dating Mr Ford from 190.

* * *

><p><strong>26th February<strong>

John was lazing in the chair watching television when Sherlock walked in after midnight. God knew why the man insisted on watching such dull television but he seemed to have developed a thing for it recently.

There was a long pause between them as Sherlock watched John's eyes dart down to the bloody arm of the suit jacket and then observed the myriad of expressions that tugged John's lips into a firm, unhappy line.

"Sit at the table," John said after a long minute, in which Sherlock had seen anger, sorrow, guilt, frustration, worry, resignation and fear pass over John's features.

He disliked stirring those emotions up in John. In a rare show of obedience, Sherlock made his way to the table and sat, gently easing off his jacket and shirt as John passed him to fetch the medical bag.

"A knife?" John asked, sounding far too nonchalant to be believed as he sat down and manoeuvred the lamp he had brought over onto the long gash on Sherlock's arm. "That makes a change."

"One of Roberts' nephews didn't take kindly to being arrested." Sherlock muttered as he looked down, trying to work out what John saw when he looked at the wound. "Luckily he was even clumsier with a knife than with his cocaine deals."

John looked up sharply.

"I have will power," Sherlock dismissed with a huff. "Must you flinch every time I mention a drug?"

John cleaned the wound with a disinfectant that stung as it touched Sherlock. "So you've started to arrest people?"

Sherlock nodded, "Moriarty didn't work out the clues quick enough."

Swallowing, John's hands remained precisely steady as they worked. "He'll be furious."

"No. He'll be itching to prove himself again. He'll gamble with more next time. Roberts is almost exhausted."

"You'll move onto the assassins now?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, "Mixing up the codes and so forth." He watched as John started to stitch the widest part of the wound with neat links that looked like railway tracks. "You're angry."

It annoyed Sherlock that John didn't move his gaze from Sherlock's arm. "This is the fourth time I've had to do this in a week." John said tightly, "And that doesn't include the injuries you treated yourself."

"It's working-"

John pulled his hands away, as if unable to trust his reactions. "Barely," John hissed, slamming the kit shut. "Moran is not afraid of Moriarty and if you're arresting now and going after the assassins you know it's only going to get worse." He leaned forwards again, quick, deft movements finishing off his work.

"Why is it you only have faith in me when I tell you not to." Sherlock studied the neat stitching before raising his eyes to John. "You refused to believe I was a fraud when everyone we met was jumping over each other to tell you. I have told you before; I know what I'm doing."

John seemed to rest all of his weight on the kit for a moment. "You can't outthink a bullet Sherlock."

"If he wanted me dead I would be dead." Sherlock replied balling up the bloody shirt.

Scrapping hand over his mouth, John raised his other hand pointedly. "They're warning shots. Do you have any idea how easy it would be for him to-"

Glaring in disbelief Sherlock tilted his chin. "Yes, I had realised."

The words seemed to pull John back from the edge of temper and back firmly to the area of worry. "I hate this," he whispered and stood, walking to put the medical kit away.

Then he paused.

"This isn't deliberate? Is it?" John asked in a rough voice. "The injuries, the close calls. This isn't part of your plan?"

"What possible plan would involve my getting injured?" Sherlock asked quirking a brow at John.

Slowly John nodded and looked away, but not before Sherlock saw the hesitation in his eyes.

"I promise you John. It is not part of my brilliant plan to be shot at every day."

After a quick search for who knew what (Sherlock had been sure he'd removed every tell he'd ever had in his early twenties) John seemed to see the truth in his statement and relaxed a little and Sherlock felt something in him uncoil in relief.

After all it was the truth.

Being shot at was the far less brilliant plan B.

* * *

><p>AN - The plan will be a lot more obvious in the next chapter! All aspects of it!<p> 


	25. Part 2: Chapter Nine

A few warnings:

1. For this and the next chapter, this will switch between John and Sherlock's pov. I'm not sure how well this will work but otherwise it's far too hard to follow in just Sherlock's pov.

2. These next two chapter are shorter than the normal ones.

3. If you've read Paved with Love you know what's coming!

4. I so should be doing ui work. If i'm on here sobbing tomorrow it's because I failed!

Thanks for the reviews for last chapter. I hope you all enjoy this one as well :)

* * *

><p><em>John Watson was not a foolish man. There were times when he felt like he was, but that was one of the side effects of living with a genius.<em>

_And dating a genius._

_And being in love with a genius._

_So, when Sherlock came up with the plan to play Moran and Moriarty against each other , John listened and allowed Sherlock to prattle on about his plan._

_It was only after days of thinking it through from every conceivable angle and talking to Mycroft that John had agreed, to his own horror, that Sherlock was right. There was no other way out of this but to practically beg Moran to take aim at Sherlock._

_John hated it. _

_Then came the next mad plan. The one where Sherlock insisted that they needed to have a believable reason for Sherlock suddenly striking back. The one where Sherlock insisted that they needed to find a way to let Moriarty believe he was on equal footing with Sherlock and the one where Sherlock could control what Moriarty attempted to disrupt._

_Namely that they would show Moriarty what he wanted to see; Sherlock bored and frustrated by his relationship with John. That he cared for John, but was struggling with the domesticity of it all._

_That grated far too close for comfort._

_It was only when Sherlock came back for the fourth time with a wound that something started to sound in John's head._

_Alarm bells._

_But he couldn't put his finger on exactly what he was becoming suspicious about. Sherlock was being truthful, he was being honest. The problem was that he wasn't being particularly forthcoming about anything._

_At all. _

_That was hardly a surprise. Sherlock was Sherlock. But still there was something just outside of his grasp, something teasing at the corner of his mind._

_It was only when Sherlock made an off handed comment about John being just about capable of getting the correct type of mould from Molly that John blinked in realisation halfway down the street._

_Sherlock was diminishing John in Moriarty's eyes. Cuckolding Moriarty into believing that John was blind to Sherlock's moods, playing down their connection and their trust in each other._

_After that it all tumbled into sense._

_Sherlock wasn't going to lose because his plan wasn't the same as John's._

_While John wanted them all to survive, Sherlock seemed perfectly willing to do whatever it took to ensure John and Ava were safe; whether he won and defeated Moriarty or died and ensured Moriarty never had a reason to glance at John again._

_It was worryingly easy to follow Sherlock from a distance So easy in fact that John's heart beat a little faster at seeing just how exposed Sherlock allowed himself to be when he wasn't with John._

_Bastard._

* * *

><p><strong>6<strong>**th**** March - Sherlock**

Sherlock shook the phone with distaste, avoiding John's amused look. "It's dead." He complained. "Why is it dead?"

"Maybe because you think you're too smart to need to double check if the charger is plugged in properly." John offered with a false smile.

It had been in properly…perhaps the plug socket was faulty...Either way John looked entirely too smug about the situation.

"You do realise that your phone isn't going to magically charge up by you staring at it." John finished doing up his shirt as Sherlock sprawled out on the bed, recharged from his four hours of sleep,

"I need it," Sherlock snarled. "Now."

"You're not even dressed."

"That hardly takes a moment." Sherlock dismissed. "Give me yours."

"Ah, no." John backed away, as if that would help matters, keeping his back to the wall which meant his phone had been slipped into his back pocket at some point.

Sherlock launched himself off the bed, narrowing his gaze at John assessing.

"You're not serious!" John tried to laugh, but faltered with worry.

Sherlock just smirked and darted forward, trapping John between his arms and between his body and the door.

"Give it to me," He ordered.

Johns gaze darted down to Sherlock's mouth almost automatically.

Interesting.

And fruitless. Despite the fact that there had barely been a moment to engage in sex for the past week, there was even less time to make room for it now.

Still, Sherlock wasn't above using it for his own ends.

John's eyes glazed a little when Sherlock let one hand drop, tantalisingly slowly down John's side until he could tease the soft flesh that was accessible between where shirt and trouser met. As if trained, John arched into the touch and raised his lips, pushing himself off the door as they kissed slowly…

Sherlock pulled away with some effort once the phone was in his hand.

"You fucking tosser!" John hissed furiously.

"John-"

But John was already slamming out of the room.

* * *

><p>With the final arrest of Katy Roberts two days ago, a story that he had actually managed to stay out of for once, Sherlock could now focus on the assassins ring. There were at least two in London and Sherlock had managed to crack the code they used with each other.<p>

Temporarily apparently.

Mycroft stood in front of the CCTV footage, frowning. "He's worked it out," he said with irritation as they watched weeks of planning fall apart.

"It was always likely that he would." Sherlock replied, lounging in the chair. "That was never the exercise."

Though clearly his brother had hoped it would be.

"Reports say that Moran and Moriarty have been in the room for hours with each other." Mycroft said offhandedly. Really, his people were so well trained at confirming the obvious.

"They stopped arguing twenty minutes ago," Sherlock checked John's phone again in case one of the homeless network had sent him an update. There was still nothing and he moved to stand, eager to get out of Mycroft's way when the inevitable sulk came at thing having not gone his way.

"You are not permitted to leave Sherlock." Mycroft said without turning around. "Not until we have discussed what comes next.

Fine.

"I need to annoy Moran in a more direct way." Sherlock begun, "You will contact the team working on him, not Hammonds though, and inform them that they need to-"

"John says that your plan B is to get yourself killed."

John.

There was the strangest mixture of pride and pain in his chest. Pride that John had worked it out and pain for the exact same reason. The man always managed to slip in when Sherlock wasn't paying attention.

"I'm being utilitarian." Sherlock replied, narrowing his gaze at his brothers back. "Surely you appreciate that?"

"Not particularly. And neither does John."

"He coped once before. I updated my will ten days ago to ensure the finances won't be an issue again but this time Moriarty should ignore-"

"Should?" Mycroft turned around. "You're willing to sacrifice yourself on "Should"? Even at five years old you would never have done anything so foolish."

"I have limited options." Sherlock stared at the phone as if he could will it to go off.

"You wish to gamble? Then leave John."

Ice settled in the pit of his stomach. "Moriarty would see through the ruse-"

"Would he? You seemed to have flawlessly convinced him that you are struggling with your relationship. John stormed out of your flat earlier on in such a foul mood I was amazed you let him go. It wouldn't be hard Sherlock, to convince Moriarty."

"Whether we are in a relationship or not, John will always be significant and a far better target for Moriarty than some random person on the street." Sherlock twisted the phone in his fingers, as if just holding onto something of John's could fool him into believing that the man was standing with him.

"And if you die, leaving me to fight your battle, do you not think that John will remain significant only without your protection?"

Uncomfortable Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets.

"You're a coward Sherlock. You simply don't want to be the last one to fall." Mycroft turned back to the CCTV footage. "John deserves better than that."

Emotion reared up within him, chocking him. But he swallowed it back, watching Mycroft's stance and observing that his brother seemed to think the conversation was over.

"We're the same." Sherlock heard himself say. "But John keeps me from being him."

Mycroft's head turned fractionally, like a dog that had heard an interesting noise in the distance.

"If John went away…I'd destroy everything in my path. I'd be worse than James Moriarty." Sherlock stood. "And John would hate that far more than anything else."

* * *

><p><strong>6th March - John<strong>

M_ and M left. Mn hid gun from Mty._

John stared at the message that beeped on his phone in confusion before remembering that the reason he'd been unable to put the damn thing on silent was because it was Sherlock's fancy contraption and not his own, standard phone that did only what you would expect from a phone.

So if this had been intended for Sherlock…

John's heart froze.

God no.

"Are you alright dear?" asked Mrs Beecham, the sweet sixty nine year old who had waved him on when he'd apologised for the text alert going off in the middle of their chat about her diabetes.

"I…"he looked up at her, "I um…my daughter. She's had a fall."

The lie tripped off his tongue easily enough.

"And they can tell you by that?" she pointed at the phone. "Those schools are so modern now."

"Yeah…I am sorry, I'll see if a colleague can see to you right away-"

"You go on," she seemed perfectly content to stay in the chair. "And see if you can send in another handsome young man."

John paused and blinked at her in confusion. "I-"

"Just go dear."

* * *

><p>Outside of the surgery, John paused in the middle of sending off a text to his own phone.<p>

He needed to be prepared.

Hailing down a taxi he started a new text.

_Homeless network sent message to your phone by mistake. SM has a gun he's hiding from JM._

Minutes later a text came back.

_CCTV picked it up. Why do you have my phone? SH_

_Because you have mine. It seemed fair. Where are you?_

This time the message was returned in seconds.

_Do not come looking for me John. Wait at work. SH_

John refused to dignify that with a response.

_I mean it. Stay at work. You'll only get in the way. SH_

Dick.

* * *

><p><strong>6th<strong> **March - Sherlock**

Sherlock stared at John's phone, trying to imagine the reaction John was having. It seemed likely he was glaring and probably trying to cover his annoyance up so as not to scare his patients.

An argument was likely to occur tonight. A blazing row where John would undoubtedly make Sherlock feel guilty and apologetic and then forgive him which would make Sherlock feel worse.

"What would be the benefits, to leaving John?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Mycroft turned in surprise from his phone conversation with Hammonds and put the obnoxious man on hold.

"You may be able to convince Moriarty that your feelings have truly run their course and you have been dissuaded of the notion of caring. But you would have to be absolute in it Sherlock; any hint that you were doing it to protect John would just make things worse."

Could he do it? This would be the turning point; from here it would be possible to fix the damage he'd caused over the past two weeks or start to ruin their relationship completely.

It was something to consider.

* * *

><p>Not far away John opened the door to the flat and stopped dead and the sight in front of him.<p>

He wasn't a fool. There was no point in begging or pleading or even running. Not when Sebastian Moran sat in his chair, angled directly opposite the door with a gun in his hand and a pleasant smile on his face.

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>

It's not really a cliffhanger! You sort of know what happens...And I assume it's a little more obvious as to why I needed to have John's pov given that Sherlock isn't in the flat!


	26. Part 2: Chapter Ten

Thank you to all who reviewed last chapter :)

Just to let you know I'm going to write another chapter/finish off this section and then start Rocks of Salvation 2 - otherwise I am in reall danger of having this huge unmanagable story. Plus I think it might give me a bit of a jolt to start afresh again.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, especially as I've had it pretty much finished for about two months now!

* * *

><p>John opened the door to the flat and stopped dead and the sight in front of him.<p>

Sebastian Moran sat in his chair, angled directly opposite the door with a gun in his hand.

"He's like a magician," Moran said slowly, leaning back in the chair and his hand never moving. "I need only ask and he gives."

Dragging his eyes from the gun John swallowed and shut the door behind him, taking his time with the lock to steady himself. "You wanted me." He said to the door as he turned the key then twisted to face Moran again.

"Such a damned waste," Moran said with a shake of his head. "And now you're playing side kick to a useless genius. You're both so misdirected."

John swallowed back the instinctive snarl and, with more bravery than he felt, walked in to the kitchen, aware that the gun never strayed from its mark. "What do you want?" he asked putting his keys on the table slowly.

Moran laughed, "I always liked that about you John. Never one to over-react."

Pointedly glancing at the gun John raised an eyebrow, "I find it laughable that you claim to like anything about me right now." He needed to get to the bedroom.

There was a clatter as Moran tossed his Browning on the floor. "I wouldn't bother," he said calmly.

John gripped the edge of the table and took another deep breath.

"You can do whatever you like though, phone, text, write. Hang out the window and scream for help." Moran shrugged, "I told you, I always liked you. I'll grant any last requests."

Nothing he could send to Sherlock would make a difference, and there was no way that he could phrase it that wouldn't have Sherlock fly through the door in a murderous rage and into danger.

God did he wish he could go back in time to the morning and say something different. They were not the last words he had wanted Sherlock to hear from him.

"Why?" he asked, not even sure what he was asking for.

Moran sighed, "Moriarty finds it thrilling. This game he and Holmes are playing. I find it annoying. And it has become more annoying since you came back on the scene. They underestimate you. Even your genius. Holmes loves his little puzzles and beating his opponents but I know you Watson." Moran stood, "Sherlock Holmes shows off. You just get it done."

There was a very audible click.

Turning, John faced Moran square on. "He won't stop. Not if you do this."

"No, not if I do it right." And Moran's hand flickered into a slightly different position.

Then he fired.

Agony exploded in his side; fire and copper and sheer pain that threw him back into the wall. Stunned he looked down at his side and pressed a shaking palm to the wound that instantly was soaked with sticky red. Weak and strangely unable to quite work out what had happened, he slid down the wall.

"You'll bleed out," Moran seemed…resigned as he pulled up a kitchen chair. John gasped, struggling to breathe when every movement of his ribs and lungs shot searing hurt through him. Moran checked his watch. "I snuck past the security…" he tilted his head to the side, "Well, if you can call it that." He laid the gun upon the table and leaned forward as John banged his head back against the wall to try and keep himself focused. "Holmes's too busy chasing his tail around London," Moran stripped of his gloves, "I lied, see I told Moriarty I would just have a chat with you. He'd never have agreed to this. I mean the chances that Holmes will feel guilty that he wasn't here, that he didn't get back in time, that he let this happen in his own flat…He'll either just stop or self-destruct," Moran stood gathering his things, "Personally I hope it's the latter. Fucking waste doing this."

John gasped trying to reach for Sherlock's phone.

"I did give you the chance." Moran bent and took it away from him. "I knew you wouldn't. I told you, that saving lives thing of yours; it always made you hesitate to do what you knew needed to be done." He tossed it onto the chair in the living area, which could have been a hundred miles away for the chances John had of getting to it.

John glared and pressed his palm against the wound as hard as he could, gritting his teeth as he did so.

"If I could make it quicker I would." Moran stepped back and John glared up at him, his body spasming from the pain.

"Fuck you," John managed to gasp out.

The smallest hint of a smile crept onto Moran's face and he nodded.

"Goodbye John."

* * *

><p>It was impossible to focus. Impossible to think, but those two words had snapped something in him.<p>

"_Goodbye John_"

Sherlock's voice. All those years ago, the sad almost choked voice that had let John know what was about to happen. The heart wrenching horror that followed had felt almost as bad as the pain now.

He wasn't doing this, not to Sherlock, not to Ava.

His other hand crept over to the wound and he pushed as hard as possible to keep the pressure firm and steady.

It sent sparks crashing behind his eyes and made breathing just that little bit harder. Under him he watched as the floorboards became stained and wet.

"No," he whispered to himself. "Nononono."

There had to be something. Anything.

But there wasn't. Nothing was close enough and his best chance at the moment was keeping the pressure on until Sherlock returned.

"Please," he swallowed. "Please god..."

* * *

><p>The door slammed closed.<p>

Please.

John's lips managed to form the words.

_Sherlock_

_Help_

_Please_

But his voice wouldn't work. It caught in his throat with the copper taste and wracked his body as he tried.

"That was possibly the most ridiculous waste of an-" Sherlock's voice halted as he stepped onto the landing.

_Sherlock_

_MOVE_

Sherlock's profile could be seen against the window and through the blurred kitchen dividers. John couldn't quite seem to form the words anymore, his hands felt like they were barely attached anymore.

But he watched as Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"I need an ambulance." He said sounding utterly devoid of emotion. "221b Bakers Street."

"Shot, he's been…" Sherlock's voice wavered slightly and he started to turn. "You need to come now."

The phone clattered to the floor and Sherlock stepped into the kitchen.

"Sherlock," John managed. And then Sherlock was next to him, pressing down on the wound and John let his hands go limp, finally. He coughed at the sudden flare of torment that coursed through him.

"How long?" Sherlock asked frantically. "How long?"

"Don't…" John gasped, trying to find the will power to keep talking. "Don't know. Can't-"

One hand cupped his chin, making it easier to keep his head up because it was so heavy. "Who?"

"Moran. He went against…don't…" John couldn't even follow his own train of thought, but it seemed very important, "Don't do anything stupid."

There were lips against his forehead and a murmured chant that John almost relaxed into. Then Sherlock's hands pressed even firmer and the jolt was enough.

_Don't go, don't go, don't go._

"Not going anywhere," John managed. "Just tired."

The chant changed.

_Stop it, stop it, stop it._

"Love-"

"No," Sherlock suddenly was cupping his face, one hand soaked in blood, the other clean, "Don't you dare." He snarled, before dropping his hand to John's wound again. "Don't you dare."

It was hard to tell if he was too hot or too cold. "Not your fault,"

"SHUT UP" Sherlock suddenly roared at him, "Just…don't do this. Please, don't-"

There was a voice behind them and a sudden horrified scream. And then green and yellow was swirling around him and Sherlock's face dipped and spun and everything became hard to see until it was all sucked up into darkness.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stepped back as the paramedics pulled him out of the way and John's eyes fluttered shut. Mrs Hudson stood at the door, eyes wide and tears streaming down her face as her hands shakily cupped her mouth in horror.<p>

John's gun lay on the floor on the rug, in front of the moved chair and his phone lay haphazardly on the cushion. There was the smallest stain of blood on it.

Sherlock turned to see the keys in John's usual spot on the table and then to the doors where the dust had been disturbed by the key they never used being turned.

"No pulse," a paramedic barked at the other, "Blood pressure's too low-"

They were attaching the pads to John's chest. Everything felt strangely silent and disconnected.

"Clear-"

Without knowing why he did it, he shook his head, stepping back against the table. John's body jerked as they shocked him. White gloves pressed against his throat.

There was blood under his feet. His shoes had been soaked in it.

He'd probably have to get rid of them.

And his shirt. And suit. And John's clothes would certainly have to be thrown out.

"Oh Sherlock-" Mrs Hudson sobbed, leaning against the wall. "Come here," she held out a trembling hand.

"You met the daughter," he said distantly, noting her clothes, the jewellery and the coffee stain on her right sleeve. "The one that contacted you in November."

Mrs Hudson stared at him in utter confusion, "Sherlock…" she started to say.

"I wouldn't see her again. She's looking for a man that never existed. You'll have to tell her that eventually."

Mrs Hudson kept staring at him and then down at the paramedics. "I've tried calling your brother," she said in a voice saturated with tears.

"He'll probably just tell you the same thing," Sherlock observed calmly as John's body was fussed over. "He'll probably just…" His mind seemed to be slowing down. It was as if someone was slicing razors through his head, fogging it up with-

_With blood soaking through the wooden floor-_

-Clouds or cotton swabs.

"He'll-" he couldn't find his train of thought and sank down suddenly onto the floor. At this angle he could see John's face, cheek smeared from where Sherlock's bloody hand had grabbed at him. He was pale and features slack.

Sherlock shook his head again and ducked his face into his hands, struggling for clarity. His fingers scrabbled for purchase and he dug them painfully into his hair, desperate to anchor himself and hold onto something.

"What the bloody hell is going-" Lestrade's voice dropped off, "Jesus," he whispered.

"I can't get hold of Mycroft," Mrs Hudson sobbed, "They've managed-"

Sherlock banged his head against the table, looking for something to focus him, to stop the cloying numbness that was soaking into every pore of his being.

Dimly he was aware they were taking John downstairs.

The blood was still there though, pooling and coagulating; pints of blood just stretching out and taking everything in its path.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was in front of him now. "Sherlock? You need to get up. Come on, they'll let you ride with him."

"Why on earth would I do that?" he asked meeting Lestrade's eyes.

Lestrade's eyes were wide and his skin chalky with fear. He was missing his wedding ring, looked tired and guilty.

"You had sex last night," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade pulled back and scrubbed at his mouth with his hand, "Christ, you need to go to the hospital Sherlock."

"I wasn't shot and left to bleed to death," Sherlock replied.

"You're in shock!" Lestrade grabbed at him and tried to haul him up. Sherlock let him, vaguely aware that he needed to be standing anyway. Lestrade glanced towards the window, "I'll drive you to the hospital."

Sherlock stared at the gun on the floor again. John had been lying there, John had seen the phone, had it taken away from him, been tormented by the sight of the objects that could save his life being so close and yet so far away.

Moran.

And suddenly everything was just slow and precise, every breath could be counted and anticipated, every permeation of the spread of blood could be predicted.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was calling. "Sherlock, listen to me-"

"No." He'd taken his coat off, when had he taken his coat off? At the bottom of the stairs, folded over the banister, left to deliberately annoy Mrs Hudson so he could check what she's been up to, without the tiresome necessity of finding her.

He turned on his heel and walked out the door, picking up the coat as he went and dimly aware of Lestrade following behind and then exchanging quick words with Mrs Hudson.

Outside Lestrade called after him, "Get in the car,"

Sherlock ignored him and kept walking, feeling utterly numb.

* * *

><p>Six hours later he walked into the warehouse.<p>

"He did warn me that you'd come for me." Moran leaned against the wall looking fully unconcerned. "And I told him you'd self-destruct." A sharp smile pierced his features. "I didn't think you'd give me the chance to get rid of you both in one day."

Sherlock felt absolutely nothing. No anger, no fear, no guilt.

Nothing.

Moran's eyes trailed over him, and he drew his gun. "I'm not Moriarty, Holmes. I don't want you here, fucking my work up."

Nothing.

"I heard he made it to the hospital. Did you know he made it through surgery?"

Nothing. No curiosity or jolt that John was still alive…trick or truth there was no response coming from his thumping heart.

Moran put the glass down. "I hope you take it as well as he did. He was a brave man."

"Yes." Sherlock said.

Moran frowned and then sighed, "I don't care if you aren't engaging in this. You're a problem and you need to be stopped. You should never have tried to take us on. You were never going to win." He said, screwing up the bottle.

"No." Sherlock said and fired the gun he'd kept in the small of his back, hidden from Moran's view.

Moran's body jolted in shock and he fired wildly, aimlessly at Sherlock..

"But you were never going to win either." Sherlock said as the sound of the gun shot faded away and the bullet holes riddled the wall behind him. Moran crashed to his knees heavily.

"You bastard," Moran gasped and tried to aim again.

Sherlock moved, grabbing the weapon from him easily and holding his wrist as Moran sank towards the ground, never taking his eyes away. Blood started to soak through his jacket as the wound, identical to John's, started to drench his clothes.

"It will be slow." Sherlock said calmly. "Very slow." He lowered Moran to the floor then let go of his wrist and took a seat in the now empty chair.

"I'll wait," he said, opening the bottle. "I've watched one man die today. What's another?"

"Didn't think you had it in you," Moran wheezed out, "Watson had a good effect on you after all."

Sherlock nodded, pouring the whiskey.

"I wasn't lying," Moran hissed, clenching through the pain. "He made it through the surgery."

"Well, we'll just see how long you'll survive then. The ultimate game of karma."

Moran was dead within the hour.

* * *

><p>There was still nothing. Nothing when he phoned the hospital to confirm Moran's words out of nothing more than a vague curiosity. Nothing when he took the glass with him, wiped all traces of his presence and left Moran where he had fallen.<p>

Nothing.

Nothing when, bored of the nothingness, he tracked down an old contact and cornered him, exchanging Moran's money for cocaine.

* * *

><p>He walked back into the flat in the early hours of the morning, not really sure why he was bothering.<p>

"He's still alive," Mrs Hudson said in the softest voice he'd ever heard as he walked up the stairs.

He didn't stop.

* * *

><p>He paused at the blood, then turned into the sitting room. Mycroft had gotten rid of the gun, or maybe Lestrade.<p>

More likely it was Mycroft.

Slowly Sherlock laid out his purchases on the table with exacting precision. John would kill him.

John was as good as dead.

What was wrong with him? There was just an empty cavern of nothingness. No remorse, no horror, no sadness or pain. Just an aching yawn of numbness that made him want to feel anything, something.

John Watson was dying.

It should be said or thought with emotion, not the empty hollow statement of fact.

They'd spent hours laughing in the very room that Sherlock was sitting in, laughing, fighting, debating. He'd kissed John for the first time in that chair, held him in comfort on the sofa, teased him to screaming orgasm in the other chair and gotten carpet burns from the rug. They'd yelled themselves hoarse at each other over the kitchen table, thrown things from the fridge at each other and had once crashed into the doorway by mistake while frantically grabbing at each other to move into the bedroom.

Why couldn't he feel anything?

He'd never wake up with John again. Never get to complain about the snoring, the cold feet. Never delight in the frankly weird way that John would never fully wake up unless an alarm went off or someone called for him to wake up. Never map out his scars…never trace this newest wound until it became his.

Nothing.

He'd never tell John that he loved him. Never say the words in the proper order and in the proper way. Because there was a proper way of doing it and Sherlock had never done it. He'd never told John why he'd never done it and now he'd never have the chance to tell John that for the first time in his life he'd realised that he didn't need to explain or define. How talking through the ridiculous idea with Mycroft had just made him utterly and completely certain of one thing.

He loved John. Never in his life had he been willing to give up something that he wanted, never had he given up or walked away when it was important; he was a creature of selfish, demanding habits, not of self-sacrifice.

But he'd done it – five years ago without a thought. Without hesitation. And he had considered it again without force or cajoling but simple concern for John's safety.

Because John had looked tired recently.

How long had he loved John? How long had he run from that thought, terrified at the implications.

It didn't matter now did it? Now he'd have to stand at a church or a graveyard or a crematorium and let them permanently take John's body away. Let some idiot say worthless, meaningless words and then let John fade away to dust or dirt.

John had managed it. John had laid his hand upon Sherlock's headstone and talked, cried, begged. John was strong and sturdy and human and real and loving and tangible and more than just a body lying on a slab somewhere.

Nothing.

There was a creak on the stair. A small creak for a small person.

Ava.

"Out," he said, staring down at the cocaine.

There was a long silence behind him, she wasn't moving. She was just as damned stubborn as her bloody father.

"I said Get Out."

"Where's Daddy?" A tiny, wobbling voice asked, sounding caught between a whisper and a sob.

She needed to leave. His hands trembled as they gripped the edge of the coffee table and he was barely aware that he was muttering something under his breath.

"Where's_"

Enough.

"Dying." The word exploded from him, the truth that no-one would say to him because he was too fragile or was going to feel guilty because he should feel guilty. Should feel like he was about to drown from it all because everything that had happened was Sherlock's fault.

Something begun churning inside of him. He knew how John tasted, how he looked when he was shy or fiercely stubborn. He knew every laugh, every look and inflection from a pointed clearing of the throat. He could say a thousand words to John with a look and John could say a thousand back with a gesture.

And John had ruined it, had got himself shot and killed because…because…

"Stupid man. Stupid idiotic man took that damned bullet because he couldn't wait..." Why hadn't he texted? Why hadn't he asked for help? Why had he left work? Why hadn't he just gone to Sherlock and yelled at him as had clearly been his first intention?

"The bloody minded fool-"

Footsteps thumped down the stairs and Sherlock collapsed to the floor, shaking as he felt the tidal wave threaten to overtake.

And then the door slammed open and banged against the wall.

No.

Terror cut through everything.

Ava had run out of the house. Ava was possibly the only thing left of John-

No, Ava was the most precious thing in the world to John and he had trusted Sherlock-

No. Ava was outside, in the cold and she was scared-

His mind stopped chasing the reason why he suddenly couldn't breathe through the idea of her being outside on her own, even as he flew through the door after her. She was like a ghost, feet slapping on the pavement as she fled up the street, her white nightie visible from the street light.

He pulled her up and into his arms before he was even conscious of moving after her. She flailed and fought his grip, frantically squirming to escape.

"I didn't mean it," he whispered, trying to get her to stop fighting him, "I didn't mean it."

"He's not dying," she fought him tooth and nail with everything she had. And she sounded so fiercely adamant that just for a second he believed her.

"No, no he's not," he agreed, trying to see her face.

Her blue eyes, lighter, clearer than John's, stared at him with John's stubbornly furious expression as tears streamed down her face, her button nose red from the cold and already shivering in his arms.

John was going to kill him for this.

And just like that the world closed in and he collapsed to his knees, unable to breath. He clutched her to him.

John wouldn't leave. John wouldn't be so stupid as to leave Ava with Sherlock. He was the most stubborn man in the world, the bravest and strongest, the most unmovable force despite Sherlock's blustering.

He wouldn't leave them when he knew Sherlock couldn't manage without him.

Traitorous hope sparked within him and he wasn't sure if it was better or worse than that aching, never ending numbness. What if he was wrong? What if there was a call, a message waiting for them right now…

"It won't happen," he breathed, "Because we won't let him will we? And if we won't let him die then he won't." He swallowed deeply. "Will he?"

Ava stared up at him, "He always does what you say,"

That was true. And he'd told John that he wasn't allowed to die.

And John had said "Ok."

* * *

><p>AN - I know nothing about medical stuff. I'm sure that's obvious but there you go!<p>

Hope you all enjoyed :)


	27. Part 2: Chapter Eleven

**A/N**

I have had the week from hell!

Sorry if this is rubbish - I needed to write or cry so this seemed more productive. And i'll probably cringe at how overly dramatic that sounds tomorrow!

Hope you enjoy! And thanks so much for the amount of reviews from the last chapter - you have no idea how much they helped me this week when I was able to sneak some emails in! I will reply to those i haven't done yet but I thought you'd all prefer the chapter first.

* * *

><p>John could be dead.<p>

With every breath he took that idea wouldn't leave him alone. Every inhale made him wonder if John still did the same; every exhale summoned forth the image of life leaving John's marvellous eyes.

All night he sat next to the phone, holding onto the one thing that he had left to protect, the one thing that he could do something about. Ava slept fitfully; so fitfully that he doubted she even realised that she had slept. It would have been better to have taken her upstairs…

But he couldn't do it. It wasn't the typical reluctance that he felt, but rather a traitorous beating terror that the moment she was out of his sight someone would strike. That if John wasn't safe in the flat then Ava certainly wasn't.

And she was so small. So fragile.

So easily lost.

The phone stayed silent.

* * *

><p>Hours later, as dawn peeped through the curtains, the phone still hadn't buzzed. Every part of Sherlock wanted to keep the quiet, the stillness, the waiting because he had no idea what he would do if that phone rang.<p>

It was if his entire life had narrowed down to the phone. Even the flat seemed to feel the weight of expectancy: the moment the phone rang it would be impossible to escape.

John would either be dead or alive. And, from the state of him, the way that Moran had suffered as he had bled out on the warehouse floor, Sherlock couldn't see how the news would be good.

But that bloody traitorous hope that could be blamed on the Watson family kept him watching the phone and praying it didn't go off.

* * *

><p>Seven o'three.<p>

Eight ten.

Eight forty-nine.

Nine eighteen.

John had survived more than twelve hours. It had to be a good sign.

Unless Mycroft had interfered.

Sherlock shook himself as the thought hit. His stomach plunged for a moment and the urge to vomit rose suddenly. In his arms, Ava stirred and snuggled closer into him.

John could be dead. Bloody Mycroft could have ruined the system.

What if he was?

Unsteady Sherlock carefully shifted Ava off of his lap and onto the floor, suddenly unable to breathe. The cloying terror was rising again.

He needed to focus.

He was useless like this; running away from information, hiding like a child. This was what John had done to him, snuck up under his defences, obliterated Sherlock's good sense, wrecked his self-sufficiency.

How was he meant to breathe without that stubborn man? How had he managed travelling around the world without John at his side?

How was he meant to go into their room without John? Or eat or sleep or work-

It was an unrealised habit that had him pause at the kettle. How often did he put it on in the middle of an argument just to make sure that John would finish off the tea making task and prove that everything was really fine.

Who would finish making the tea?

How dare John-

Sherlock didn't even finish his thought before he hurled the kettle at the wall. The plastic shattered against the paint work and the pieces clattered off to the side in a satisfying cacophony of noise.

How was he meant to fix this? He didn't know how to fix a kettle.

Or John.

Useless.

Drained Sherlock leaned against the counter, staring at the ruins of the kettle that were sticking to the congealed blood.

That needed to be cleaned. Ava-

The world sharpened suddenly and snapped into focus as he spotted the little girl watching him with huge worried eyes.

Finally, something he could do.

"Go...wash your face and do your teeth," Sherlock ordered, reaching back to John and Ava's typical routine.

Ava nodded and went, amazingly, without the usual battle and whining over cleaning her teeth.

* * *

><p>In the stillness that followed Sherlock stared at the blood and the remains of the kettle, dimly acknowledging the significance. Slowly he knelt and plucked up a shard of plastic, noting the tackiness of the blood that stained the dull beige plastic faintly.<p>

John had believed in him; despite the overwhelming odds and the vast logic, John had gone out and shown the world his faith with yellow paint.

Sherlock let out a breath.

John was still alive. It wasn't interference but John's sheer stubborn nature that had ensured the phone hadn't rung all night.

But if that was true then John was going to go ballistic at the state of the kettle.

God please let him live.

* * *

><p>"I see you managed to sort out the important things," Mycroft drawled.<p>

It took everything that Sherlock had not to start in surprise at the sound of the voice. He couldn't be bothered to deal with Mycroft's concern right now.

"Go away Mycroft," Sherlock said dully, unable to muster the usual contempt that accompanied his conversations with Mycroft.

But his brother seemed unable to leave well enough alone, and pointedly cleared his throat, "So I should leave the child to inspect your...score?"

Score?

Oh!

Sherlock swung his head around and caught sight of Ava, dangerously close to the cocaine.

How had he forgotten he'd left the drugs on the table? How could he have let her anywhere near…?

The sight of Ava so close to the substance shuddered disgust through him, and it was hard to even muster up a defensive sneer at Mycroft as his brother read those emotions upon his face.

"Come here," he said holding out the free hand that wasn't holding a piece of kettle.

Without hesitation Ava moved towards him, obviously confused but equally eager for the reassurance. It was impossible to just let her stand next to him; he needed to cup the back of her head and pull her close to him, keeping her from the world.

It still wasn't enough. Somehow he'd managed to call her over and the tips of her toes were almost touching John's blood.

He was failing already.

John had to be alive. He couldn't possibly manage this.

Pushing Ava's head into his hip to hide her view of the blood Sherlock scanned his brother. He'd been up all night; at the hospital and in that damned car of his if the faint stain on his cuff and the wrinkles in his suit were any judge. Mycroft would not have hidden from the knowledge the way Sherlock had and Mycroft didn't seem on edge. He had known Sherlock was in the flat with cocaine and hadn't interfered or sent a team up to relieve Sherlock of his goods.

John was alive.

John was stable.

Relief almost made him want to slide down to the floor again. His fingers curled fractionally tighter around Ava's head.

"Now you may leave," he said to Mycroft.

It wasn't hard to spot the way Mycroft relaxed a little, relieved that he wouldn't have to explain the situation to Sherlock and risk a sentimental conversation.

"Have you even been back to the hospital?" Mycroft taunted.

Back?

"I.." Sherlock's mind raced as Mycroft's eyes narrowed, "I'm watching Ava." He added, as if floundering for a reason while he tried to work out what Mycroft was trying to say.

Had Mycroft realised where Sherlock had been and sent up an alibi or had he merely made a mistake?

No. Mycroft didn't make mistakes. But he could see from the tilt of Mycroft's head that he hadn't been wholly sure where Sherlock had been.

Moran's body hadn't been found then. But the firming of Mycroft's lips screamed that his brother would be looking for it now.

"I have people that can do that, that can take her away so you can_"

Iron resolve clamped down.

No.

Ava wasn't leaving his hearing range.

"Leave." Sherlock growled, "Right now. Get into that car and go, right now."

"Don't be dramatic_"

"Dramatic?" What was Mycroft even thinking? John had been shot! "Dramatic?"

"Someone needs to watch her-"

"I am watching her." How idiotic was he?

"-and it is not your responsibility-" Mycroft continued on without a pause.

"Yes it is," Sherlock roared.

It was hard to tell who was more shocked by his outburst. Mycroft stared at him as if he'd announced he was squeamish. Part of Sherlock skittered at the idea, because if letting John in had been hard then letting Ava in would be-

And then there was that image, that terrible awful image of the little girl running up the street in her think nightgown looking like a fragile wisp that could slip from his fingers any second and be lost forever.

There was the dawning realisation that, just like with John, it was far too late to detach now.

Ava shifted under his hand, not just to look or question even though he could almost touch the curiosity radiating from her. No, she moved as if to give him comfort, the same way he had observed she sometimes did when John was beyond tired or upset.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft whispered looking stunned.

"She's mine, mine and John's. And in every way that matters, she's mine."

And, God, wasn't that terrifying.

* * *

><p>It took only hours for his natural curiosity to start burning away again. And, by the afternoon, Ava was with Mrs Hudson and one of Mycroft's people as Sherlock made his way to the hospital.<p>

How John had ever managed to work in one of these he would never know. If there was one substance Sherlock truly hated, it was bleach. It made everything the same; the smell was overpowering and it turned everything it touched into monotony.

Dull.

Mycroft had secured John a private room which was good, and one of his minions sat opposite the door eying him up in a way that Sherlock approved of.

Past the door was hell.

John was so still. The heart monitor beeped reassuringly into the silence of the room but Johns face remained smooth and placid; indicating the unnaturalness of his sleep.

Sherlock's feet sounded very loud in the room, despite the heart monitor. As soon as he was able to he let his fingers trace the covers that rested over John's feet, his calf, his thigh…

He paused at the stomach, seeing the lump that indicated the dressing and protection over the wound.

_The blood, seeping through his hands, the warmth of it even as the rest of John faded and cooled…_

With a shaking hand he reached for John's wrist, needing his own test to allay the fears that perhaps the heart monitor was faulty. But there it was; the pulse. Steady and strong. Just the feel of it under his fingers made his heart flutter in sheer relief.

Unwilling to let go of his evidence, Sherlock reached out and pulled the plastic chair close so he could sit and keep hold of John's wrist. As soon as he was sat he dropped his head to John's hand, as if in doing so he would be able to hear the blood flow, the pulse of life and the beating of his heart. As if he could lose himself in the smell of John's skin; the textures of his fingers and the strength of his tendons and muscles that denoted his surgeon's skill.

If he had died how long would it have taken for all of that to fade? If Sherlock had decided to leave, to stay away to piss John off and incite a fight then would he still be able to detect all that made John John in the body before him? Or would it have been to late even for that? Would he just be sitting with an empty shell and no evidence that once upon a time John had been everything.

Desperate for something, anything, Sherlock mouthed at John's hands, needing more, needing to taste and protect something. The second knuckle on his left hand was calloused and had a tiny scar from a slip up back when John had fist wielded a scalpel on a corpse when he'd been training. He pulled away fractionally and breathed, the warmth of his breath bouncing back from John's skin in a wholly unsatisfactory way.

"Come back to me," he whispered, almost no louder than his breath. "You have to come back."

He heart monitor beeped in steady reply.

* * *

><p>A finger twitched.<p>

Sherlock snapped his gaze to it, watching with narrowed eyes, assessing every single detectable evidence that John was about to wake up.

For a moment he wondered if it had been his own hope that had deceived his mind (God knew he was becoming less and less objective as the days went on when it came to John) but then the eyelids flickered and the breathing became less steady.

"John?"

The eyelids squeezed, as if John didn't want to wake up. The fingers in Sherlock's hand fluttered and John's breath hitched in his throat, likely from both pain and dawning consciousness. A rasping breath caught on John's dry oesophagus and Sherlock found himself half standing over John to see him push through the last of his slumber and back into the world.

"John?"

John swallowed as blue eyes struggled to open and he winced.

Looking around Sherlock grabbed at the jog on the table and filled the glass with a splash of water then gently placed it to John's chapped, dry lips.

John swallowed, winced and then properly opened his eyes.

"Huh," he muttered staring up at Sherlock as Sherlock pulled the glass away.

"What?"

John blinked at him and turned his head vaguely towards the monitor and then back to Sherlock.

"My hand's wet." He murmured in confusion.

Sherlock looked down at the wet patch where his mouth had been and then back up at John. "I was examining the flow of blood in your hand."

John's nose scrunched up in curiosity and for a moment all Sherlock could see was Ava. But then John seemed to just accept it as another one of Sherlock's oddities and let it go.

"What…" he shifted and then gasped in pain. "What happened?"

"You were shot," Sherlock said, glancing at the chart and suddenly wondering how much morphine John was on and how cognizant he actually was.

"Again?" John sounded utterly unimpressed. "That's not good."

Relieved laughter chuckled out of Sherlock. John was dazed, high and pained but he was magnificently alive and wonderfully…John.

"No," Sherlock agreed, pressing his forehead to John's. "No, it isn't."

John nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's cheek and his breath hitched again from the pain of the movement. His breathing was uneven and his forehead creased.

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling something well up within him from it all.

"You ok?" John slurred.

Pulling back, Sherlock studied John. His gaze was fogged from the painkillers and his eyes were already fluttering shut.

Part of him insanely wanted to jolt John back to wakefulness but the rest of him wanted to curl up around the man and make sure no-one dared come through the door and disturb his rest.

John had woken up.

Pressing a fierce kiss to a now sleeping John's forehead, Sherlock sat back, still holding John's hand to wait for the next time he woke.

* * *

><p>It was impossible to stay forever; if for no other reason than Ava. There was that odd tug of war; the battle between caring for the little girl and the wounded man, but once again he was utterly useless when it came to helping John.<p>

Ava however he could manage. He knew how to call for a takeaway.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was waiting for him in the flat.<p>

A glance at the kitchen showed that Mycroft's minions had been at work again and there was only a faint stain where John's blood had been. Sherlock paused to stare at it, utterly ignoring Lestrade.

Until Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Do you have nothing better to do than laze around waiting for me?" Sherlock asked, dragging his gaze away and to his brother who had just climbed the stairs.

"I was consulting with Mr Finn." Mycroft said, clearly meaning the man who had been sat in Mrs Hudson's kitchen for most of the day posing as the gas man. "Besides, the inspector here has some interesting news."

"Really?" Sherlock asked doubtfully, throwing Lestrade a challenging look.

"Sebastian Moran's body was found three hours ago in an abandoned warehouse." Lestrade said, fixing Sherlock with a searching gaze.

Sherlock sneered a smile wolfishly, "What a pity," he said icily.

Lestrade brushed a hand over his mouth and seemed to steady himself, "Am I going to find anything on that crime scene that connects you to it?"

Sherlock stepped forward, "Your questioning technique leaves a lot to be desired inspector."

Lestrade licked his lips, "Do you have an alibi?"

Sherlock slid his gaze to Mycroft who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes." He said, "I was at the hospital and then buying cocaine."

Lestrade's eyes jumped open in panic and he stared in disbelief. "You fucking id-"

"It has been disposed of," Mycroft cut in smoothly. "Untouched."

"That reminds me, do I get a refund?" Sherlock asked coolly.

But Lestrade had turned away from him, "Wait, you're not buying that?" Lestrade asked Mycroft forcefully, "I'm not John; I know what he was like. You're seriously telling me that all this happened, Sherlock bought cocaine and didn't use it?"

"I am standing right here," Sherlock snarled.

"It would appear that anything with Watson DNA has a good effect on my brother." Mycroft replied, ignoring Sherlock.

Lestrade let out a disbelieving breath and leaned against the chair for a moment, shaking his head.

"Do you have an alibi I can use?" he asked, sounding exhausted.

"I can assure you," Sherlock hissed, "It is not necessary. If another consulting detective existed, they could not find any evidence linking me to Moran's death. There is nothing to find."

Lestrade studied him intently, a war of relief and disgust playing upon his features until he finally settled upon a sneered expression that looked wrong on his face.

"One day, you are gonna answer to the law Sherlock. You don't get to play god and have no consequences."

Sherlock stepped dangerously close, "Even if you somehow grew a backbone and decided to build a case, you would fail to ever prosecute me." Sherlock promised. "And do not even think to try and guilt me into feeling remorse. It will not happen."

"You can't go around killing-"

"He shot John." Sherlock roared. "Would you have had me wait for him to return to finish off my entire family too?"

Lestrade suddenly lost it. "Don't even pretend that's why you did it." He shouted back. "You made a mistake and you couldn't bear the idea of it walking around and mocking you. You wanted revenge."

Sherlock hit him.

Hard.

Twice.

Then yanked him close as Mycroft sighed in the corner.

"I do not care if you make it your lifelong mission to see me pay for my crime. I will not snivel and apologise for keeping them safe. Be thankful I was dazed enough to just shoot him. I could have made it last days."

He threw Lestrade away from him with a violent thrust.

"Get out." He said, walking away. "You will not upset Ava."

* * *

><p>Ava, as it turned out, was already upset.<p>

"A man on the news was shot and died," she sobbed. "I don't want Daddy to die."

How was it that him yelling the exact same thing at her had less of an effect than a presenter reading out a fact calmly on the six o clock news?

"He's fine," he said gently, patting her on the head awkwardly as she sniffed against his shirt. "He just needs…a rest."

Ava pulled back to stare at him miserably, "He can rest here," she sulked with petulant tears in her voice, "I'll help you look after him."

"He needs a doctor," Sherlock grounded out, hating the fact too.

"Then you should have got shot."

Sherlock's heart almost stopped.

"-because Daddy's a doctor and he could have looked after you here, then no-one would be at the hospital."

A strange relief flooded him that she hadn't meant the words the way they had sounded and he pulled her in close again.

"Maybe next time," he said soothingly.

But Ava pulled back again, the disappearing tears welling again at an alarming speed.

"You can't get shot," she whimpered, her voice quivering with tears.

Lost as to how her mind was able to jump back and forth, Sherlock gaped at her.

"I don't want you to get shot." Ava sobbed, her voice cracking almost into incoherence.

Gathering her back up again Sherlock sighed at the wall.

This was going to be a very long evening.


	28. Part 2: Chapter Twelve

Thank you so much to all that read and reviewed the last chapter - you all cheered me up no end :D

So this chapter is a bit...angsty? Maybe...

Hope you enjoy :)

* * *

><p><strong>11th March<strong>

It was hardly the first time he'd been called into Scotland Yard; the fact was he was a good deal more sober than that time many years ago, and a great deal more interested in the situation.

It wasn't the first time he had received looks while giving his statement. That had started on his second time turning up without a lawyer and declaring the interviewer of the day a moron.

It was however the first time he had sat in a room with Mycroft tapping his fingers on the table while every single police officer in the room knew he'd committed a crime that they were unable to pin on him.

It was fascinating to say the least.

Though that was tempered by the fact that it was Mycroft who sat next to him giving unwarranted advice every so often.

"Is that all detective?" Sherlock asked Donovan mockingly, "I do hope it's been helpful."

Donovan shook her head in wordless fury and turned to glare at Lestrade who had barely said a word throughout the entire façade. Lestrade nodded once and Donovan scrapped her chair back harshly, turning off the recorder as she stormed out of the room.

The other followed her seconds later with a last disgusted look at him.

The next crime scene would be…interesting to say the least.

There was a rising feeling of triumph as he smiled at Lestrade and next to him Mycroft sighed.

"Am I free to go?" Sherlock asked with an overly polite tone that he never directed at Lestrade.

The man opposite him slammed the file shut. "You really don't get this do you?"

"Spare me the lecture Inspector-"

"Do you think we had a problem with it? Moran was a ruthless bastard and the world is better off without him. Do you think there aren't occasions where we turn a blind eye? The problem's your bloody attitude you arrogant git!" Lestrade snapped. "The problem is that you think you can do what you want and we're too stupid to make you deal with the consequences."

Sherlock smirked and smiled, "That appears to be a very accurate deductions of the situation," he sneered.

Fury flashed in Lestrade's eyes and then a dangerous snap of triumph. "Wrong." He said very carefully and started to gather up the bagged evidence that had been pitiful at best.

"Am I to be the victim of another self-righteous lecture?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

Lestrade stood and walked to the door. "You know for years I always worried about this day. What I would do if this happened. But then something occurred to me a few months ago and I stopped worrying."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, already bored and pulling out his phone to text Mrs Hudson for the address of the friend's house she was at.

"mmm. Apologies for being late Mycroft. I was at the hospital, having a chat."

Sherlock's fingers froze mid text and he slowly looked up to where Lestrade stood, hand on the door handle.

"What did you tell John?" he asked, feeling the blood and the haughtiness drawn from him at the look on Lestrade's face.

Looking torn between triumph and guilt Lestrade flexed his hand on the handle, "I felt almost bad telling him. But then I remembered. He deserved to know and no-one made you do anything Sherlock. Anything John's feeling right now is your fault. Not mine."

Fury roared within him and Sherlock leapt out of his chair and Mycroft's grasp, emotion driving him until he was standing face to face with a determined looking Lestrade.

"He was shot three days ago." Sherlock snarled, "How dare you risk his health on a hypocritical urge to teach me a lesson?"

"Then next time don't do anything that would upset him to hear about." Lestrade yanked the door open. "You're free to go Mr Holmes."

* * *

><p>The ride to the hospital was tense. Mycroft sensed that nothing he could say would help and Sherlock's mind kept racing over how John would react.<p>

Hurt? Both physical and emotional definitions of the word were unacceptable. If John were angry he could hurt himself – the man was never able to remain still for long was he was in a temper. Disappointed, upset…

* * *

><p>Yesterday John had been a lot more focussed than when he's woken up the previous day. Immediately the doctor had swooped in, ruining the moment and diagnosing John's wounds and pains in a manner that had Sherlock backing out of the room, unwilling to hinder John's recovery.<p>

But there had been a long look that John had given him. A long sweet look that was so filled with emotion and comfort Sherlock had needed to pause against the door to the room once he'd left it.

That long sweet look was nowhere to be seen this time.

John was reclined against the pillows, a steely glint in his eyes and pain around his jaw.

"He had no right to tell you." Sherlock said closing the door softly.

"And you had no right to keep it from me," John said gruffly; the discomfort from his wound clouding his voice.

"You've barely been awake-"

John snorted and then winced, "Don't even try that one. If you wanted to tell me you would have found a way to do so."

"I didn't plan on keeping it from you forever," Sherlock replied, squaring his shoulders to John.

John shook his head and stared at the ceiling. Watching him Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to assess how much pain he was in.

It was hateful seeing him in a hospital bed like this. Images of a younger John Watson, in a mediocre hospital fevered, pained and also shot kept tugging at his imagination. A john Watson alone and scared and feeling as if his life was over due to his injury.

If that bullet had been a few inches lower they may have never met at all.

Terrifying.

"What…what's annoyed you the most?" Sherlock asked, determined to start hacking away at the problem between them and soothe the tension that was bleeding from every part of John.

John's gaze lowered in disbelief to Sherlock's face.

"I don't even know where to begin," John's voice cracked in a way that made Sherlock squirm and look away.

"Everything I did was to keep us safe-"

"Safe?" John almost laughed but caught himself with a gasp of pain. "Explain to me then, which part of you hunting Moran down was keeping us safe? Which part of returning to the flat with cocaine was helpful? Which part of you staying away from the hospital while I was in critical condition and vulnerable was you thinking of something else besides your own petty revenge? Or were you just hedging your bets and moving on to better and bigger things?"

"Moran would never have gone after you in the hospital," Sherlock snapped, ignoring the last and most moronic accusation. "It would have offended his sensibilities and ruined his plan-"

"Sure of that were you?"

"Yes."

"As sure as you were when you said they'd go after you and not me?"

Sherlock opened his mouth but no words came out. John coughed and hissed in agony.

"Relax," Sherlock stepped forward feeling useless. "Tensing up isn't-"

"Don't you dare act concerned now." John snarled.

"Act? ACT?" Sherlock gaped at him. "Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea what it was like to see you lying there? You have no idea what-"

"I have no idea?" John roared, "Coming from the man who faked his bloody suicide and made me watch?"

The heart monitor spiked.

"Get out," John looked away.

Unwilling to leave it like this Sherlock took a step forward.

"For the love of…you are doing more harm than good. Get out before you send my blood pressure through the roof. " John closed his eyes and seemed to be trying to get himself under control.

Sherlock paused and drew himself up. "That would be why it seemed pointless in coming. I could do you no good sitting and watching a door."

John drew in a slow deep breath, "It would have been nice to know that you wanted to be here for me."

"I killed for you," Sherlock hissed.

"From you, that's less impressive." John closed his eyes again.

* * *

><p>Ava bounded over to him as he walked through the front door, "Mrs Hudson said you went to see Daddy."<p>

He was not in the mood for this. "Yes. Go have your dinner."

But Ava shook her head, "I want to hear about Daddy," she sulked. "I want-"

Sherlock turned around and wrenched the front door open, slamming it closed behind him quickly, lest Ava dart out after him. Then he sucked in great lungful's of air as he stood, hand on the door knob, ready to tug if someone tried to open it.

"I shouldn't have told him."

Finally. Someone to scream at.

Turning Sherlock regarded Lestrade who stood in plain jeans and a jacket, clearly off duty.

"I am not having a good day." Sherlock hissed in warning.

But Lestrade nodded, "Let's talk somewhere else."

* * *

><p>Elsewhere turned out to be by a quiet, disused area of the river bank; a popular area for body dumps.<p>

Lestrade was truly pushing his luck today.

Sherlock slammed the car door shut as they go out and Lestrade braced folded arms on the roof of the car, keeping the car between them.

"You have really fucked this up." Lestrade said slowly.

"I-"

"You have been so angry, so utterly furious that you aren't thinking." Lestrade continued forcefully. "In what universe do you think it's a good idea to practically boast that you've gotten away with murder?"

"I haven't been boasting-"

"You have." Lestrade breathed in heavily. "You're trying to prove something according to your brother and I haven't a clue what it is, but you are getting dangerously close to being really stupid."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the metal in irritation.

"You want to take out what happened on someone? I get that. But you are your own worst enemy Sherlock. You're making them remember; what Moriarty said; how easy it was to believe his story. You are so close to ruining yourself without Moriarty so much as lifting a finger."

"John was shot-"

"And you killed the man!" Lestrade snapped, "What more do you want? You got to do more than most people do in this situation. You got your justice, you watched him die, you exacted your revenge. Other people have to sit back and find an outlet. You've had yours."

"It does not make up for the fact that John was shot-" Sherlock started to snarl.

"What will?"

The question took Sherlock by surprise. "What?"

"What will? You've punished Moran. What else will it take?" Lestrade asked pushing himself away from the car and walking around to Sherlock. There was a determination to his step, a resigned motion to the way he held his hands at his sides.

"I am not hitting you Inspector," Sherlock yanked the door open again. "This is pointless; take me home."

Lestrade slammed it shut again and Sherlock blinked in surprise. "Fine. Good."

And then he punched Sherlock instead.

The force of it, the unexpected shock crashed him to the floor. With a disbelieving glare he touched a careful finger to his jaw and winced at the flare of numb pain.

"You should have seen that coming a million miles away." Lestrade said staring down at him and rubbing his knuckles. "And you should have understood that John's issue isn't what you did, god knows the man accepts more of you faults than an normal human being should. It's what you didn't do."

"Do not presume to give me relationship advice. Especially considering your ability with them," Sherlock hauled himself to his feet.

"Fine. I've got a suspect. His partner was shot and the kid left on her own with an old woman who ain't much of a threat to a trained assassin. Instead of checking they were alright he fell of the grid, put everyone at panic stations looking for him which meant there weren't as many watching the partner and kid and then turned up arrogantly declaring he'd fixed everything and not one bit apologetic or interested in hearing what happened while he was picking up a gun to shoot Sebastian fucking Moran in a warehouse, so far away from the partner and child that he would have been flaming useless had something have happened in retaliation."

Sherlock took a deep breath .

"You tell me what John's problem is?" Lestrade said, his voice quiet after his previous yelled rant.

"How do you not understand the situation-" Sherlock begun.

"How do you not understand?" Lestrade replied. "You haven't asked once what your brother was up to, what we were all up to that left us uncertain as to where you were."

What?

Sherlock snapped his head to Lestrade in horror.

"If you were Moriarty, what would you have done?" Lestrade took a step forward as, for the first time in their acquaintance, Sherlock stepped back. "If you got the call that John Watson had been shot, Sherlock Holmes had vanished and was last seen in severe shock while Ava Watson was at school, unprotected. What would you have done?"

Slowly terror crept in as Sherlock took another step back.

"Mycroft's people took care of the assassins."

The car was suddenly the only thing keeping him upright. Nausea leaped up and suddenly there was a horrible image of returning home, armed with cocaine to have been greeted by the sight of Ava, dead on the floor her blood mixing with John's and Mrs Hudson's…

The car failed him as he stumbled away from Lestrade.

He threw up.

Lestrade left him to it as he gasped for air, trying to stop the world from spinning.

Two miscalculations in one day.

He could have lost….

Everything.

He pulled himself to stand again and wiped at his mouth with suddenly damp, trembling hands.

"Does John know?" He asked, trying to find a centre of gravity again.

"No." Lestrade said carefully, "But he suspects I think."

Sherlock nodded and turned slowly.

"You helped. You helped keep them away."

Lestrade looked almost hurt, "Of course I did."

They stood there, staring at each other; the wind from the Thames whipping their hair and clothes and for a while the birds in the distance were all that could be heard. Lestrade's expression softened and he pulled the door open again for Sherlock before going round to the driver's door again.

Sherlock obediently walked towards the door and gripped the edge, watching as his fingers stained the metal with his sweat and prints.

"Thank you." He said to the door.

Lestrade didn't say anything and Sherlock mentally steeled himself to say the words again in case they hadn't been heard.

"Get in." Lestrade said gruffly. "Don't say it again. It's weird."

* * *

><p>Walking back into the flat was difficult.<p>

What had happened? How many assassins had there been? Who had been the primary target? Had they been after him?

How close had it been?

"I'm sorry," Ava said in a tiny voice from the stairs.

Turning he looked up.

Ava was sat on the top step on the top floor; her duvet bunched around her and a tired look on her face.

"You should be asleep," he said gently, stepping onto the next flight of stairs and pausing when they were eyelevel.

"I didn't mean to make you sad," Ava said biting her lip looking worried. "I wanted to…I promise I won't ask again."

It was tempting. Painfully tempting. At the moment the mention of John was a wound like no other.

Unsure of what to say, Sherlock climbed the last few steps and sat himself next to Ava, amused when she shifted to give him part of her duvet. He stared down the steps for a moment and then silent raised his arm, allowing her to snuggle into his side.

"You should never apologise for asking questions." Sherlock said eventually, squeezing her a little closer. "Ever."

"But it makes you sad." Ava whispered into his shirt.

Suddenly overcome he shook his head and pressed a fierce kiss into the top of her hair.

They sat like that for a while, Sherlock trying to get himself back under control as he teetered on the brink of some terrible emotion that he didn't dare indulge in while Ava was next to him.

"Sherlock?"

He nodded against her head, still unsure of his voice.

"Can I…?" her voice was so small and unsure it couldn't even be called a whisper.

"Ask," he managed to say, preparing himself for any and all questions about John.

"Are they coming back?" Ava asked in the same tiny voice.

"They?"

"The bad men who hurt Daddy." She asked, and this time he could hear the tremble of terror.

No.

Shaking his head against hers wasn't enough. He pulled her up onto his lap and almost folded himself around her as if to keep her safe from the entire world.

"No," he whispered firmly. "I won't let them."

Ava sniffed, "Promise?"

Sherlock nodded, "I promise."

* * *

><p>Ava fell asleep in his lap and he put her to bed soon after. But he stayed and watched her sleep, unable to bear the idea of walking out of the room.<p>

"How close was it?" he asked as Mycroft climbed the last step.

"You don't want to know the answer to that brother."

No, he probably didn't. "You have reports on it?"

"You can have them tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded, not taking his eyes off Ava.

"You are returning to the hospital tomorrow?" Mycroft asked.

"With Ava." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the floor beside him. "She wants to see him."

"I'll arrange suitable transportation-"

Sherlock shook his head, "No."

Mycroft sighed, "Do not be stubborn-"

"I need a favour."

There was utter silence next to him. It was a pity his eyes were refusing to leave Ava because he had a feeling Mycroft would never look as taken aback again as he did at that moment.

"What?" Mycroft asked suspiciously.

"In 221c is a web. Take it down and reassemble it as it is in whatever place you deem fit for such a thing. I will explain it another day."

"Why-"

"I cannot do both." Sherlock stood as the covers slipped off Ava as she shifted. Gently he replaced them and stepped back.

"You are not seriously giving me Moriarty," Mycroft breathed.

Sherlock turned to his brother finally. "Yes. I am."

* * *

><p>So there you are! This was originally much longer and included the hospital scene but as I'm not even a quarter into the conversation between John and Sherlock and already on 1500 words i figured i should make that scene into a seperate chapter.<p>

Much angst abound in the next chapter and then an interlude and then I will start the second story for Rocks of Salvation...(which imaginatively will probably be called RoS 2!)


	29. Part 2: Chapter Thirteen

Thanks so much for the fab reviews and for those that are still reading this. Just the interlude to go and then RoS 2 will be starting.

Two things:

1 This is mainly Sherlock and John talking things through. Lots of dialogue! Lots of angst and then setiment!

2 If anyone is curious about whay will happen with the Moriarty/Mycroft/Sherlock then have a look at "Tea and Coffee" which has some pretty big hints of what is going to happen and how the adults get to the situation in July.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>12th March<strong>

Ava did every single thing he asked of her that morning without complaint or fuss, as if she were worried that the slightest misstep would result in him not taking her to the hospital.

It wouldn't happen of course, and it was somewhat concerning that she thought that, but god did it make things easier to have an obedient child in the flat for once.

"Are we going by car?" she asked, trying to peer around as he shut the door and held her hand.

"No."

"Taxi?" she asked, still craning her neck.

"Tube." He answered, leading them down the steps and keeping her hand securely in hers.

The look she gave him made Sherlock almost want to smile. "Tube?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "You hate the tube."

But it was public and less of an obvious target than Mycroft's sleek black cars. "It's not far," he said crossing them over the road.

By the time they got to the platform Sherlock had picked her up and into his arms, hating the crowds that threatened to separate them. Ava however was delighted with the change in height and before long took to pointing out bald patches in a voice that wasn't as quiet as she thought it was.

* * *

><p>Sherlock let Ava go in to John's room ahead of him as he spoke to the doctor. When he entered he paused at the sight in front of him.<p>

John, in a move that would no doubt irritate his doctor, had clearly encouraged Ava up onto the bed and snuggled her into his uninjured side. The little girl was curled into him, her curly head of hair a stark contrast to the clean , tidy lines of the hospital blankets and gown John wore. She peeked at Sherlock with wide eyes even as her hand clutched at John's gown. A tiny, content smile was flashed at him as if they were sharing a wonderful secret.

John was alive.

But he was still furious. His chin was resting on Ava's head and one arm was protectively curled around her, a position that was rather uncomfortable for a man that had just been shot. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock, narrowed dangerously.

"Do you want me to move her?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Try it," John taunted.

It would be better to leave, to let John calm down and Ava reassure herself, but Sherlock couldn't look away from the sight of the pair of them; both tired and damaged in some way because of him.

Slowly he watched Ava's eyes flutter shut and her breathe even out.

"Is she asleep?" John asked a while later.

Sherlock nodded warily, "Yes."

John ran his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully, clearly weighing up his words.

"Has she been ok?"

They hadn't been the words that Sherlock had expected to hear, but nonetheless they were unsurprising. "Yes, a little shaken but for the most part fine."

"You've been good with her." John murmured.

He doubted that. Every time he saw Ava he seemed to be tumbling over mistakes with her.

"You have," John insisted. "Everyone's commented on it."

"Everyone being Lestrade and Mycroft?" Sherlock sneered.

"And Mrs Hudson, Mike, Molly."

How had John managed to see that many people? He was like a foghorn, drawing people to him whether they liked it or not.

"Idiots." Sherlock dismissed.

John gazed at him steadily, "She's never been without me, and yet she isn't crying or unhappy. You judge yourself too harshly."

Sherlock waited, "You have far more to say on the matter than this," he replied eventually.

Nodding in agreement John shifted in the bed, tucking Ava against him more securely. "Moran. That's what pissed me off the most; you going after Moran."

"I am aware of the failings of my actions that night," Sherlock begun.

"I don't think you are-"

"I am aware of the assassins that came for you and Ava."

If it was possible for someone to freeze while lying in a bed then John managed it. His face turned whiter than the bed sheets and he stared in horror at Sherlock.

Damn.

"Lestrade was under the impression that you had guess-"

"No," John said hoarsely, "No…I…" he stared off to the side for a moment, clearly trying to process the information.

"Then what was your issue?" Sherlock asked, seeing John lose himself in the thoughts of what might have happened that night and feeling the sudden urge to distract him. John didn't need to be haunted by what might have happened a few nights ago.

Blinking John stared at him, the expression on his face showing that he was already veering back to the point at hand and away from the dark nightmare that could have been that night, "I…you went after Moran."

"I am aware of that," Sherlock eyed the chair in the room suspiciously, wondering whether John would allow him to sit while they did this.

"Well…he did call it," John raised his spare hand as if to rub at his eyes but gasped at the pain that caused in his side.

It took everything Sherlock had to prevent himself from darting forward. "Call what?" he asked, to distract himself from the sight of John struggling.

"Moran told me you'd either self-destruct or stop."

"Moran was an idiot."

"No he wasn't," John argued, "You went after him, on your own without a care for what might happen-"

"Spare me this lecture; I've already had it from Lestrade."

"I'm not talking about legal consequences you git," John glared, "I'm talking about dying consequences! You had no way of knowing you would walk out of that building alive."

"He shot you," Sherlock snarled, trying to keep his voice low so as not to wake Ava. "You were dying-"

"And what if I had woken up and discovered you were dead?" John replied. "Or what if we had both died that night? What would have happened to Ava?"

"You would have managed. And so would she."

John's jaw dropped in fury. "I barely survived the last time you "died". I told you, I sat with you in the flat and told you how I felt when you left me last time and you chose to ignore all of that and risk everything-"

"Everything I had was lying dying in a hospital bed," Sherlock snapped.

Then his eyes dropped to Ava's sleeping head. John was as necessary as air now but Ava…there was a horrible, uncomfortable image of the five year old adrift and alone in the world that made him reconsider the idea that there would be nothing left to lose if John were stolen from him.

"Yeah," John said quietly seeing where Sherlock's gaze lay, "I thought…I hoped that we were becoming…but we weren't were we? For a while I thought we'd settle into some domestic bliss and…" John's jaw tightened. "I don't know which you were planning Sherlock, but I'm not an idiot. This past month…you were either trying to get shot or you were about to leave me."

Sherlock stared at the floor, unsure and hating it, knowing that John could see the confirmation on his face as clearly as Sherlock could read a crime scene.

"You bastard," John said with such quiet anguish that Sherlock shut his eyes as if that could lessen the blow. "Which was it?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the sheets on the bed. "I was too selfish to ever seriously consider leaving."

"So dying was better?" John asked, his voice sounding full with tears.

"I…Mycroft pointed out the flaws in that plan," Sherlock muttered.

"But you considered it?"

"Your safety is paramount-"

"Not at that cost," John said thickly, "Not like that."

"John-"

"You can't…I can't have you make those decisions over my head Sherlock." John's eyes were terribly bright. "God…I can't keep having this conversation with you," he ducked his head to Ava's hair, as if drawing strength.

"And I will not pretend that you are not targeted and need to be protected because your ego has an issue with it." Sherlock hissed, that itching, nauseating worry making him lash out.

It was utterly the wrong thing to say. That was apparent the moment the words hit John's ears.

But Sherlock had no idea how to call them back.

"My ego?" John said, his voice suddenly losing the wavering quality it had previously had. "MY ego? If it wasn't for your flaming ego seven years ago, then none of this would be happening!"

"John-"

"How can you stand there and even have the gall to say that to me? I didn't show off to the point that Moriarty had an opening to destroy us, _I_ didn't swan back into the life I'd left behind and drag everyone back in with me because my ego needed to be soothed. _I _ didn't force this relationship because _I _was too impatient to think it through, _I _ didn't think I could play two powerful, deadly men against each other and make them dance to my tune. _I _didn't then become so bloody self- obsessed that I brought drugs back into the flat rather than check that Ava was alright-"

"I wasn't-"

"Did you want to finish Moran's work? How would it have been helpful to get high? Tell me exactly how that was more useful than visiting me in the hospital or making sure that Ava wasn't scared?"

"I thought you were dead!" Sherlock snapped, "I couldn't feel anything I couldn't…" he trailed off swallowing back what he wanted to say. "I needed to feel something, anything."

"How…" John looked away as if suddenly hurt by something. "I've accepted many things about this relationship Sherlock. If you felt like that then can you imagine how much worse I would have felt if…"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, sensing something…erroneous in the way that John was thinking but unable to work out exactly what it was.

"You can't just leave again Sherlock. Not this time. You have ties, responsibilities-"

"I know-"

"You don't! Otherwise you wouldn't have gone after Moran or bought cocaine or-"

Sherlock growled in frustration and scraped at his face with cold hands. "This is going nowhere," he hissed.

"-Or planned to leave."

Shaking his head Sherlock looked at the wall.

"How would I have explained that to Ava? She adores you. How am I meant to explain to her that you and all the characters that go with you are suddenly gone from our lives? She's five and she's had enough people John's voice cracked at the memory of Harry, "Did you even think about her?"

"You've coped before-"

"Coped! Sherlock, not thrived or managed but coped, endured. I told you, I damn well told you what it was like and you still were happy with leaving-"

"I told you, I could not leave."

"Dying then"

"I updated my will."

John's jaw dropped.

"And that makes your plan alright?" he asked with quiet seething rage. "You couldn't manage just the idea of me dying, how the hell do you think I was meant to cope with living through your death twice? Especially after all we had?"

Had?

HAD?

Terror clutched at Sherlock's heart as he focussed on that single dreadful word.

"How could you do that to us, to her, to me?"

The fear clutched at him and made him slow, "I…I wasn't thinking

"You? Not thinking? You never not think Sherlock."

But he hadn't. He'd never considered how John might fail to cope, fail to forgive again. John always managed. "I didn't think_" what? That it would hurt John this much?

"That was made abundantly clear." John snarled.

He had no idea how to fix this. He had no idea how to breathe.

So he fled the room instead.

Outside was cool, there was air and he could almost dull the picture of John lying in a hospital bed, staring at him with disappointment.

Sherlock was so far out of his comfort zone now.

In his pocket his phone vibrated.

_Sending someone over for the web. MH_

Sherlock stared at the text for a moment, then turned around suddenly.

* * *

><p>"Go away John started when Sherlock strode back into the room.<p>

"Enough," Sherlock cut across him, standing his ground. "I have had enough."

John's jaw twitched and he paled slightly.

Good.

"I am not letting you shout and rail at me just because you are hospitalised."

It was hard to tell whether John relaxed or tensed up even further at that statement.

"I will not stand here and listen to you spout nonsense Sherlock continued.

John opened his mouth.

"I have ended the game with Moriarty."

John gaped at him, "This isn't like clicking off of an online game of poker,"

"No. It is however strangely akin to giving everything I have worked on for almost six years to Mycroft."

John stared for a moment and then shook his head, "Do you really think I'm going to fall for that?" he snarled after a pause.

There was a gut reaction to push back, to start another row to which there seemed no end to, but, for the first time in what felt like weeks, Sherlock thought.

Properly thought. And observed.

The conclusion was staggeringly painful, but unequivocally accurate.

John had no idea just how deeply Sherlock…felt. He was still under the impression that he was the more committed in this relationship.

How could he be so stupid? How could he really not know? Sherlock hadn't said it exactly but he had to know?

Didn't he?

Something must have shown in his face because John looked taken aback, concerned almost.

Slowly Sherlock reached over for Ava, "Let me put her on the chair," he murmured softly.

John relaxed his grip and tracked Sherlock's movements with careful eyes as Sherlock picked the little girl up off the bed, marvelling at the warmth she'd found with John. With upmost care, he placed her on the chair and then took off his coat, gently placing it over her, wanting her to keep that heat.

"I owe you an apology," he said slowly, not looking at John.

Silence.

"What for?" John asked sounding very uncertain.

"You…" Sherlock closed his eyes and then turned to John, opening them again. "You have been labouring under a misapprehension for a while now."

Staring at his blanket covered feet John seemed to press his lips together.

"I am not…" Sherlock searched for the right word, "Certain of how these things work," he confessed haltingly. "I dislike explaining the obvious but…you need to know that if it came to it, if I had to choose…I would willingly leave puzzles behind. I would confess every error I had ever made, destroy every experiment presently running and claim ignorance in every court room. If I had to choose it would be you. Every single time, it would be you."

John stared at him.

"And…if I seem…if there appears to be a lack of faith in your abilities or a lack of trust in your council it is because I have never had anything…anyone….that I have…loved as much as I love you. And I don't know how to keep you safe."

John still stared, stricken.

"And…you should have known that. I didn't tell you properly and…" he stopped himself, feeling that deep thick emotion threaten to shake him apart again.

A hand tucked into his and tugged him close.

Sherlock let it pull him but didn't dare open his eyes or risk relaxing against the tidal wave building inside of him.

"Sherlock," John whispered, his thumb stroking circles on the back of Sherlock's hand. "I…I'm here," he offered. "I'm fine. It's fine. I promise."

"You..." Opening his mouth almost let it loose. It took a moment for him to work out how to speak without releasing everything. "You wouldn't have known…I'd have never been able to tell you-"

His voice wavered.

"Come here," John said gently, tugging at his hand. "Please.

It was the last word that undid him. Blinded by the wetness that was almost spilling down his cheeks he ducked down close to John, wanting to feel the pulse, the warmth, the breath that showed John was alive.

But the moment he smelled the familiar scent, felt the warm skin and heard the thundering beat, Sherlock clenched his hands around whatever he could reach of John's that wouldn't cause pain and held on as tight as possible.

"I'm sorry," John whispered in his ear, "God…I hate that you had to see-"

Sherlock shook his head fiercely into the crook of John's neck, the awkward angle already killing his back. "Don't," he hissed pathetically. "I intentionally did far worse to you."

"You didn't know I was in love with you," John shushed gently.

"Neither did you," Sherlock whispered.

Sherlock could feel John's forehead crease with sorrow and a gentle brush of lips passed over his skin. "I didn't want to leave you." John confessed. "All I could hear…all I could think of was you saying goodbye to me and how much I hated you for leaving me. I didn't want that for you."

"Moran died within an hour." Sherlock whispered back. "He had the same injuries as you and…I thought…"

John turned to him and Sherlock lifted his head, pushing their foreheads together. Tears flowed unbidden.

"I don't know how to do this," Sherlock gasped quietly. "The more I try to protect you the more…I almost lost you."

"But you didn't" John soothed.

It had been far too close though. Shaking his head he let his lips brush John's cheeks, jaw, neck. Anything to feel the signs of life within John.

John talked in soft, quiet tones and used words that probably made no sense but quietened Sherlock's racing heart somehow. A hand slid into Sherlock's hair gently, brushing it comfortingly.

They stayed like that for what felt like far too short a time, and until Sherlock started to feel as if he could breathe again.

Then John started wriggling.

Then squirming.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock murmured into the crook of his neck.

"Trying to give you more room," John replied shifting again.

Rolling his eyes Sherlock sat up and on the edge of the bed. John bizarrely took this as a sign to shift even more. With a growled huff, Sherlock reached out and carefully placed his hands on either side of the bed so John couldn't move.

John gave him a questioning glance.

"Doctors are useless patients," Sherlock declared. "Stop moving; you've been shot!"

"You're going to get a back ache-"

Unimpressed Sherlock glared and strangely John smiled at him. The fond, sad smile faded away and John let out a sigh.

"I hate being shot." He muttered. "I hate hospital beds."

"You're a doctor."

John's hand reached to stroke Sherlock's again. "You know it will be weeks before they let me out?"

"It's not prison John."

John chuckled and then winced. "Will you be ok with Ava?"

Sherlock turned slightly to glance at the little girl mostly hidden by his coat.

The answer was surprisingly, or perhaps not that surprisingly, easy.

* * *

><p>There you are!<p> 


	30. Epilogue: The Moment

The Moment

Mycroft's people had been irritating. Beyond irritating. Sherlock had been forced to explain over and over again things that, really, should have been obvious to people paid as much as they were.

Mycroft had babysat. Which in itself was amusing to think of. If there was one person in the world less likely to cope with a five year old than Sherlock was, it was Mycroft.

Mycroft clearly agreed.

"That television program," he said with a dangerous glare at where Ava sat with a puzzle and that god awful cbeebies. "Who knew the BBC was branching into methods of torture?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock studied the takeaway menus in front of him. All the acceptable ones were lined up as he attempted to plan their week's meals.<p>

Ava clambered up onto the chair next to him, munching on the apple he'd given her earlier. It seemed unlikely that John would approve if he risked her getting scurvy.

She leaned over, onto her elbows putting a very serious look onto her face. Munching and studying the menus in front of him she tilted her head up to Sherlock. "Daddy hates that place," she said, jamming a finger on one of the menus. "We should eat them."

Amused Sherlock looked down at her, "It's a terrible takeaway," he scolded lightly. "Your father has good reason to dislike it."

"But their chicken nuggets are amazing!" she said, over emphasising the last word.

Chicken nuggets were terrible things, though admittedly very handy. Sherlock made a non-committal noise, just in case he needed to use them at some point in the week.

"Was Mycroft mad?" Ava asked tracing the letters of a particularly bright menu.

"Not especially." Sherlock tossed three menus on the floor before remembering that John wasn't around to scold him and that Mrs Hudson had probably used up her cleaning quota for the year already. "Why?"

Ava shrugged. "I was bored," she said after a moment. "He doesn't smile much."

No, Mycroft never really did.

"Don't take it personally," Sherlock replied. "He deals with idiots all day long."

"He doesn't shout either. He glares," Ava pushed one menu across to the middle of the table carefully, as if Sherlock wouldn't notice.

"What did you do?"

"I drunk his coffee to make him turn Cbeebies back on."

Sherlock paused and stared at the wall opposite, before twisting to stare down at Ava.

"He turned it off," Ava justified. "It was boring without the TV. I told you." She shifted and then shot him a sneaky grin. "We watched Peppa Pig."

"You did it on purpose?"

The smile faltered slightly as if she was suddenly unsure. "He always looks so grown up. I wanted to see if he'd do something different."

Sherlock could feel his mouth twitching and on a sudden urge, picked her out of the chair and placed her on one hip. "Did his mouth pinch?" he asked.

Ava nodded, "And that eye," she pointed it out by almost poking Sherlock in the eye to show she meant Mycroft's left eye, "Almost closed."

"You must have really annoyed him," Sherlock said.

Ava looked at him, eyes searching as if to figure out what his reaction would be.

"He's very precious about his ties," Sherlock told her after a moment's consideration.

Ava's face broke into an excited grin that probably spelled the end of Mycroft's sanity. After all, Sherlock and Ava together would be an almighty pain for him.

"Mycroft won't be mad?" Ava asked with a conspiratorial gasp.

"No." And if he was he'd have to deal with Sherlock first before he attempted to scold Ava.

* * *

><p>It was the first time he'd actually been called inside the school building. Usually he just managed to hover outside of it and wait for Ava to weave her way through to him. The head was a stern looking woman who had the most hideous tights Sherlock had ever seen.<p>

She walked him through the hallway which was painted a rather plastic shade of light blue and spattered with pictures and photographs of small children.

It was so claustrophobic and cluttered with useless items that it spiked his temper up as they walked.

"If you would Mr Holmes," Mrs Leagrave said with a forced smile as she held her office door open for him.

The office was as dull as the woman.

She gestured for him to take a seat and Sherlock purposefully slumped into it, adopting a haughty attitude and relaxed posture just to see what she would do.

The insipid woman cleared her throat pointedly. Then, seeing that it wasn't going to have even the slightest effect, continued on.

"Thank you for coming in at such short notice." She started.

"You wished to discuss Ava?" Sherlock cut across her before he had to suffer through any more small talk.

"Indeed." She shifted and he hid the smile he wanted to give at seeing how much he was unnerving her. "We are aware of course that this is a difficult time for Ava, what with John ill-"

"Shot," he corrected her, "He is not ill, he is injured."

Shifting again she nodded. "Yes, well, Ava has been wonderfully behaved since returning to school. We did have our concerns but it seems that continuing on with her normal routine worked wonders."

Sherlock straightened and leaned forward, suddenly focussed. "I am not one of your usual insipid parents. Tell me your problem before I have to suffer through your attempts at patronising me."

Mrs Leagrave looked taken aback. "I…" she took a steadying breath and seemed to be trying to glare at Sherlock. "Ava has been playing tricks on the other students."

"Tricks?"

"Harmless in their nature but we are concerned that this is a rather odd coping mechanism. She seems to have developed a fascination on seeing how people will react and has a bizarre focus on damaging ties at the moment."

Ties…ah.

"I…she appears to have taken something I said out of context. I will talk to her about the ties."

"And the rest?" The head asked. "We are deeply concerned that this might be showing her attempts to disconnect. She's calling these tricks experiments, as if distancing herself from the res t of the class. We would like to bring in a psychologist in case-"

Sherlock had no idea what was showing on his face but it made her stop incessantly wittering on. She seemed to flounder for a moment.

"Please understand we simply wish to nip the problem in the bud before-"

Sherlock stood and leaned over the desk, enjoying the spark of fear in her eyes as he did so. "She is copying me because I am the only person in the flat at the moment. I do experiments in my line of work. That is all. This is not a psychological issue."

"It's a sign of sociopathic tendencies." The idiotic woman tried to explain.

"I am well aware of that." Sherlock hissed, fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. "I am more familiar with the diagnosis than you will ever be. There is nothing wrong with my child."

"Perhaps we will revisit the topic once John's feeling better-"

"Recovered," Sherlock snarled. "He hasn't got a cold."

"Mr Holmes will you please step back from my desk."

"The lines on your finger say you have been married three times, you haven't kept the rings so you've been divorced that many times also. You left them because you always hope to move on to better things rather than work and improve them; there is nothing old or sentimental about your jewellery and clothes and it's all brand new, which probably means your finances aren't as good as everyone assumes, though you'd never tell them that. This is your second headship at a school and you're struggling to impress the teachers here, probably because you dislike working with what's already there; you prefer to clean shop and start from scratch. You have a need to assert your authority and are using the psychological aspect of your further training to stage a power play because the other members of staff are unsure of the area and will bow to what they conceive to be your higher wisdom in the matter. I will make it perfectly clear Mrs Leagrave, I was diagnosed with sociopathic tendencies as a child. Do I seem particularly sociopathic to you right now?" Sherlock's voice rose and sharpened as he spoke.

Mrs Leagrave stared at him for the longest time. "No." she said eventually, "No, you seem like any other concerned parent."

"I am not her parent."

Instead of cowering at his tone, Mrs Leagrave sat back, looking at ease for the first time. "Mr Holmes, since being in my office you have referred to yourself as Ava's parent and Ava as your child."

No he hadn't…

Oh.

OH.

"I was…" What? Blinking he stared down at the polished, pristine desk feeling vaguely confused.

"I would suggest then Mr Holmes that Ava is trying to get your attention; she wants you to be impressed by what she is doing. Curtail it please."

Sherlock stared at the woman in front of him. "How accurate was I?"

"Completely right. But I do not use students in trying to consolidate my role here." She sat straighter, "And you must understand the effect that Ava's behaviour might have on her peers and her status with them. Perhaps a talk with her might be in order?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly.

"It's lunch time in a few minutes." She stood, holding out her hand, "You make take Ava home Mr Holmes."

* * *

><p>"Can we get some sweets?" Ava asked as they walked out of the gates. "I missed out on sticky toffee pudding with custard," she added, as if this was tantamount to losing a million pounds.<p>

Sherlock stopped them and crouched in front of her. Whatever he'd been about to say, the scolding he had half-heartedly started to create in his head faded away as Ava raised a fair eyebrow at him.

It created a certain expression on her little face; one that said that the wearer doubted what they were going to hear would be of much use but they were willing to entertain and humour the person speaking. He'd seen that expression in the mirror or in the reflection in windows when he was at a crime scene. The expression that Sherlock himself often used when talking to Lestrade and John.

It was like a thunderbolt.

He was raising this child.

This was his.

All his.

And then she frowned slightly and her eyes softened in a way that was all completely John.

Theirs.

This tiny girl was theirs. When he and John were long gone there would be tangible evidence that they had been together and created something incredible from it.

This tiny girl with her raised eyebrows and concerned frown. She was Sherlock's responsibility; his to help shape, his to encourage the best bits of John to shine through.

His.

Ava stared at him looking very worried now. "Are you ok?" she asked. "Have you forgotten to eat again?"

There was really only one answer he could give.

"It's fine." He stood, feeling strangely as if the world had stopped and started while he'd been crouched. "It's all fine." He added as he slipped his hand into Ava's.

"You need sugar. Now we have to go to the shop." Ava announced.

She really was the perfect mix of him and John.

Sherlock nodded and took her hand, letting her lead him.

* * *

><p>Ava bounded into her bed, squirmed down under the covers and pulled the purple fairy duvet up to her chin.<p>

This has always been John's area, tucking Ava in, doing the bedtime story. It felt as if he was invading precious territory.

"You have to sit on the bed," Ava told him frankly.

Gingerly Sherlock placed himself on the edge, and eyed the bookshelf on the wall with some trepidation.

"Which one?"

Ava twisted her head as she snuggled down further into bed, "How did you meet Daddy?"

"He's told you before."

"You haven't," Ava pointed out.

Sherlock studied her carefully. With a deep careful breath, Sherlock nodded. "How does your father usually start?"

"Once upon a time…" Ava prompted.

"Once upon a time there was a man-"

"Was it the soldier or the detective?" Ava asked.

"The detective before he became a detective," Sherlock answered, feeling slight foolish. "And he was a very angry man. The rest of the world was always going too slow; there was nothing to catch his attention, nothing to focus his mind and feel connected to.

So he did...silly things. Anything to make him feel something.

Then, one day he stumbled upon a crime scene, quite by accident. He realised he could see what the police couldn't and that finally there was something to focus on. Something interesting and real. So he started to solve crimes.

Then, one day, while conducting an experiment a man walked in."

Ava beamed, "The soldier," she said, her eyes lighting up at the mention of John.

"Indeed," Sherlock moved a little and Ava shifted until somehow he was sitting with his back against the headboard and Ava tucked up next to him. "The detective took one look at him and thought he'd seen everything he needed to see. He thought that maybe they could manage to live together for a few months so the detective invited the soldier to see the flat he was renting."

How was he meant to represent suicides and deaths in a fairy tale?

"Did the detective like the soldier?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "Yes he did.

"Do you love Daddy?"

Nodding Sherlock looked down at Ava. "Very much."

"Good," Ava whispered sleepily.

Smiling Sherlock disengaged himself from Ava, drew up the covers again and tucked her in. Her eyes fluttered as she fought sleep and he stroked her smooth cheek with a gentle hand.

Leaning over he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "And you." He added.

Her face frowned, clearly her tiredness prevented her from piecing that together. "When Daddy comes home everything will be ok, won't it?" she asked with a long yawn.

God he hoped so.

Besides, how could it get any worse?

* * *

><p>AN

Couldn't resist the end line!

So this is the end for this fic and this part. I have posted the sequel called "Rocks of Salvation: Nest among the stars" which has a depressing prologue and will then start two days before John gets out of hospital and will continue on until the following October. Then there will be a third and final fic/part.

Thanks for following this and hope you've all enjoyed the story so far :)


	31. TimeLine  Not an Update!

**Time Line**

I know that some people have been confused about the timeline in these fics so here it is. **I have set the current story line in 2011/2012 simply because then I can easily use the calendar to figure out the days easily! Use whichever year you like as the starting point :)**

The Sequel is up -** "Rocks of Salvation: Nest among the Stars" **

* * *

><p><strong>When his hour will come<strong>

15th June 2006– Sherlock jumps off the roof

22nd June 2006 – Harry turns up at John's door heavily pregnant

7th July 2006– Ava is born

April 2008 – Harry takes Ava back (Ava is almost 2)

7th July 2009 – John visits Ava and Harry and discovers Clara has left and Harry is drinking again.

January 2010 – Harry kills the husband of the woman she was seeing in self defence

April 2010 – Harry is sent to prison

10th July 2010 – Harry commits suicide in prison

August 2010 – John moves and gives up work as a doctor.

* * *

><p><strong>2011<strong>

17th September 2011 – **Paved with Love Chapter 1 begins **

21st September 2011 – Moriarty turns up at John's work.

1st October 2011 – John meets Moriarty again and works for him at the bar.

14th October 2011 – Moriarty calls John in again.

24th October 2011 – John has a fight with one of Moran's associates and tells Mycroft Sherlock is alive.

1st November 2011 – Sherlock and Mycroft knock on John's door

22nd November 2011 – Ava inadvertently reveals John is in love with Sherlock to Sherlock.

24th November 2011 – Sherlock picks Ava up from school for the first time.

21st December 2011 – John sees the card from Irene Adler and leaves for the night. **(PwL Ch2)**

22nd December 2011 – Sherlock and John make up!

25th December 2011 – Xmas – Moriarty's present.

26th December 2011 – Sherlock leaves for Amsterdam

28th December 2011 – John catches the thief in the flat.

31st December 2011 – Sherlock returns home

* * *

><p><strong>2012<strong>

6th January 2012 – Sherlock's birthday.

19th January 2012 – Sherlock and John start creating the web in 221c

24th January 2012 – Sherlock and John meet Hammonds about Moran

27th January 2012 – Ava and Sherlock spend the day together (**PwL Ch3)**

31st January 2012 – John and Sherlock meet Moran at the club

1st February 2012 – Ava cries to Sherlock about the homophobic comments at school.

3rd February 2012 – Sherlock, John and Lestrade go to the school

4th February 2012 – Sherlock comes up with his plan to drive a wedge between Moran and Moriarty.

6th March 2012 – John is shot. (**PwL Ch4) **Moran is killed

11th March 2012 – Sherlock is interviews by Scotland Yard

12th March 2012 – Sherlock takes Ava to John and tells john he loves him.

20th March 2012 - Mycroft babysits Ava (**Epilogue of RoS**)(**Start of Tea and Coffee**)

21st March 2012 – Sherlock has the moment

29th March 2012 - **RoS:NatS Chapter** **1** will start on this date

31st March 2012 – John comes home from the hospital.

5th April 2012 – They go on holiday for Sherlock to solve a case **(PwL Ch6)**

25th April 2012 – Parents evening (**PwL Ch7)**

2nd May 2012 – Mycroft babysits Ava at his work.

19th May 2012 – Ava gets food poisoning **(PwL ch8)**

21st May 2012 – Ava is discharged from the hospital.

1st June 2012 – Sherlock storms into Mycroft's office demanding Moriarty files.

2nd June 2012 – Ava comes home with sports day letter while police search the flat for missing evidence **(PwL ch9)**

15th June 2012 – Ava's sports day and six year anniversary of Sherlock's jump.

6th July 2012 – Ava's birthday party **(PwL c10)**

7th July 2012 – Ava's birthday

8th July 2012– Sherlock and Ava go to monument for Ava's birthday.

10th July 2012 – Ava gets a new teacher **(PwL Ch11)**

16th July 2012 – Ava gets into trouble at school over the synonyms.

18th July 2012 – The roof! **(PwL Ch12)**

17th August 2012 – Ava finally starts talking about what happened to her.

26th October 2012 – Sherlock sets fire to the flat. (**RoS: NatS Prologue**)

* * *

><p><strong>After 2012Future**

23rd December 2014 – Sherlock and John get married!

7th June 2015 – **"The Bet" starts.**

March 2026 – Ava and Mycroft meet up to discuss Ava dropping out of University.

March 2032 - **Epilogue of RoS series**

* * *

><p><strong>Hope that helps! I will go back through RoS (my lovely beta is looking through the chapters again :D and I'll add the datescorrect the dates as needed.)**


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